A 


i 


THE  SILVER  AGE 


The    Author    desires    to    thank    the    proprietors    of    The 

Century,    The  Forum,   The  New   York   Tribune   and  the 

Boston  Evening  Transcript,  for  permission  to  reprint  here 

the  stories  which  appeared  in  their  periodicals. 


THE  SILVER  AGE 

AND  OTHER  DRAMATIC  MEMORIES 


BY 

TEMPLE   SCOTT 

Author  of  "The  Pleasure  of  Reading? 
"The  Use  of  Leisure"  etc.,  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
SCOTT  &  SELTZER 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
SCOTT  &  SELTZER 


SCHLUtTEl  PRINTING  COMPANY.    NEW  YORK 


D.  GEORGE  DERY,  ESQ. 
Accomplished  Gentleman  and  Wise  Friend 

I  Dedicate  This  Book 

In  Acknowledgment  of  the  High  Pleasure 

I  Have  Enjoyed  in  His  Fraternal  Companionship 


I 


484302 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.  THE  SILVER  AGE  .        .       .       ,.,  t.,  i 

II.  AN  ODD  VOLUME  .        .       .       .  .  15 

III.  THE  LADY  AND  THE  SINGING-BIRD  .  37 

IV.  " ANY  VINDERS  TO  MEND  ?" .        .  .  73 
V.  REB  YANKEL       .       .       .       '.  .  91 

VI.  NEW  YORK  AT  TWILIGHT  .       .       ...131 

VII.  FIFTH  AVENUE  AND  THE  BOULEVARD 

ST.  MICHEL    .       .       .       .       ..     143 

VIII.  THE  FAUBOURG  SAINT  BRON-NEX    ^     175 
IX.  AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  DISK   .     191 


THE  SILVER  AGE 


Where  silver  mists  the  hill-tops  cloak, 
Where  scents  the  air  the  wood-fire's  smoke, 
Where  green  and  white  in  sunlight's  shine 
The  red-roofed  house  gleams  o'er  the  chine, 
There  'neath  the  soundless  sky's  blue  dome, 
There  is  rest — there  is  home. 

Where  hosts  of  pines  'gainst  western  sky 
Uplift  their  serried  spears  on  high, 
And  through  their  branches'  fret  of  bars 
Shine  the  kind  eyes  of  evening  stars, 
Where  glows  the  sunset's  golden  foam. 
There  is  rest — there  is  home. 

The  year's  brave  story,  blue  and  gold, 
By  sun  and  cloud  and  greenwood  told, 
Enchants  my  heart  and  lifts  my  mind 
To  dreams  of  hope  that  I  may  find, 
When  spent  of  strength  I  no  more  roam, 
There  my  rest — there  my  home. 

Companion  dear  on  life's  high  road, 
Who  shared  my  pain  and  sorrow's  load, 
Unfettered  from  the  world's  demands, 
Content  we'll  wait  on  love's  commands, 
Where  silvered  gleams  the  even's  gloam, 
Where  is  rest — where  is  home. 


THE  SILVER  AGE 

1  RECALL  a  day  many  years  ago — how  many  I 
dare  not  count — when  the  head  master  of  the 
school  appointed  me  a  monitor,  with  the  special 
duties  of  keeping  an  eye  on  the  boys  during  recess 
and  reassembling  them  later  for  their  class  studies. 
I  remember  that  I  was  very  proud  of  this  accession 
to  office,  and  that  I  listened  gravely  to  the  dominie's 
dignified  words  in  which  he  emphasized  the  call  I 
had  received  as  a  step  on  the  road  to  self-reliance 
and  manhood.  I  know  I  did  not  fully  understand 
all  he  said  to  me,  but  I  promised  to  acquit  myself 
worthily. 

The  next  morning,  at  the  usual  hour,  I  took  my 
allotted  stand  on  the  topmost  of  the  stone  steps 
which  led  down  to  the  playground,  and  watched  my 
schoolmates  at  their  games  of  marbles,  leap-frog, 
peg-top  and  rounders;  and  as  I  watched  them  a 
wave  of  utter  despondency  surged  over  me,  and  my 
eyes  filled  with  unbidden  tears.  I  saw  now,  what  I 
had  not  before  conceived,  that  my  new  dignity  had 
debarred  me  from  my  old  splendid  freedom,  and 
that  I  might  never  again  take  a  part  in  this  en- 
chanting play  that  was  being  enacted  before  my 
gaze.  The  sounds  of  laughter  and  free-lunged  en- 
joyment struck  in  me  such  a  pang  of  melancholy 
that  for  a  time  I  felt  convinced  I  would  never  again 
know  what  it  was  to  be  happy  as  I  once  was.  A 
veritable  hunger  of  desire  seized  me  to  run  down 


'  The  Silver  Age 

the  steps  and  fling  myself  into  the  vortex  of  the 
merry  life  for  which  my  whole  soul  went  out  in  a 
longing  inexpressible. 

But  I  remembered  the  master's  admonition  and 
my  promise,  and  I  resolved  not  to  give  way.  It 
would  be  derogatory  to  my  position  now  to  mingle 
with  my  inferiors;  so  I  held  back  and  tasted  instead 
the  bitter  waters  which  those  drink  who  live  on 
high  places  while  yet  thirsting  for  the  wine  of  the 
spirit  of  common  fellowship  with  their  kind.  I  had 
never  before  experienced  such  a  feeling  of  utter 
loneliness,  and,  for  the  first  time,  I  realized,  even 
though  my  heart  still  clung  to  it,  that  my  boyhood 
had  gone  from  me,  and  that  I  should  no  more  be 
careless  and  free. 

The  friends  I  had  cherished,  the  companions  who 
had  climbed  the  orchard's  walls  with  me  in  reck- 
less daring,  the  lads  who  fought  by  my  side  against 
the  rival  school  in  many  a  snowball  battle,  these 
could  now  be  but  acquaintances,  whom  I  might 
loftily  and  condescendingly  accost,  but  with  whom  I 
must  no  longer  walk  arm  in  arm.  The  ecstatic  hours 
I  had  spent  with  them  over  deeds  of  some  belted 
knight  or  pirate  of  the  Spanish  Main,  whose  re- 
markable careers  I  had  followed  in  the  numbers  of 
a  penny  weekly,  these  hours  were  to  be  but  as  the 
dreams  of  golden  days  forever  vanished  in  the 
mists  of  time.  I  must  now  eat  my  lunch  in  solitary 
state,  not  daring  to  proffer  a  bite  from  my  dried- 
meat  sandwich  for  a  mouthful  of  another's  juicy 
apple.  I  must  walk  home  alone,  unaccompanied  by 
an  admiring  one  who  would  share  my  hopes  and 
listen  to  my  tales  of  prowess.  The  realization  of 


The  Silver  Age  5 

this  sudden  separation  from  my  fellow  beings  came 
to  me  as  a  shock,  and  it  was  many  days  ere  I  ac- 
cepted the  fact  as  inevitable. 

Often  did  I  sneak  down  from  my  pedestal  and 
surreptitiously  steal  a  place  in  a  game  of  marbles, 
and  in  pretence  of  seeing  "fair  play"  demonstrate 
that  my  ancient  skill  was  still  with  me.  But  the  old 
intoxicating  spirit  of  the  victory  won  was  gone.  It 
had  evaporated  with  the  freedom  that  had  been 
denied  me.  I  saw  also  that  the  boys  took  my  en- 
trance into  their  sacred  circles  as  an  intrusion.  They 
seemed  to  be  not  at  all  put  out  when  I  won,  taking 
it  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  when  I  once  played  for 
the  usual  stakes  they  paid  up  with  unconcealed  ill- 
grace  and  not  at  all  in  the  proper  spirit  of  the 
gambler  who  had  lost  a  fair  game  fairly.  I  was 
made  to  feel  that  I  had  taken  a  mean  advantage 
of  them.  But  a  few  short  days  ago  I  was  admired 
as  a  master,  and  now — well,  now  there  was  no 
special  merit  in  a  monitor  winning.  Indeed,  I  soon 
found  there  was  grave  danger  in  his  losing.  For 
when  I  met  my  match,  as  I  did  on  one  unhappy 
occasion,  the  tale  of  my  defeat  was  twice  told,  and 
for  days  after  I  was  met  with  grinning,  triumphant 
faces.  I  had  gained  in  rank,  but  I  had  lost  my 
original  greatness.  Sic  transit  gloria  mundi.  From 
that  time  I  kept  my  lonely  seat  high  on  the  steps, 
and  watched  the  boys  at  play  with  a  broken  heart. 

I  am  thinking  of  those  by-gone  days  now  as  I  sit 
in  my  study  with  my  open  book  lying  unread  on  my 
knees,  listening  to  the  gay  chatter  of  my  children  in 
the  next  room.  I  hear  them  discussing  the  new  play 
they  are  going  to  see  with  the  young  men  who  are 


6  The  Silver  Age 

to  accompany  them,  and  whose  evidently  welcomed 
raillery,  which  grates  on  my  nerves,  they  are  receiv- 
ing with  peals  of  laughter.  My  wife  is  sitting 
opposite  me,  knitting  socks  for  soldiers,  but  she 
seems  to  be  highly  pleased  with  the  silly  chaffing, 
for  she  is  smiling  as  though  the  stupid  noise  augured 
happy  coming  events.  I  become  aware  that  my 
book  is  not  at  all  interesting,  and  I  have  an  over- 
whelming desire  to  rise  from  my  seat  and  go  into 
the  next  room  to  share  in  the  fun  and  add  to  the 
laughter.  I  know  no  reason  why  I  should  be  left 
out  here  in  the  cold.  I  am  not  the  old  super- 
numerary they  must  think  I  am.  I'll  just  show 
them  that  I  still  know  how  to  play  and  be  freely 
happy  even  as  the  youngest  and  best  of  them.  Then 
I  glance  at  the  lady  opposite  and  see  the  graceful 
head  with  its  new  silvered  beauty  and,  instinctively, 
I  pass  my  hand  over  the  broad  bald  space  on  mine, 
and  I  heave  a  sigh  of  melancholy  resignation.  Nay, 
remain  where  you  are,  I  say  to  myself,  the  god  of 
bounds  is  making  his  rounds  your  way,  and  has 
signalled  to  you  to  make  ready  to  take  in  sail. 
Breathe  silence,  and  let  the  dying  rays  of  the  sun 
of  your  day  wash  its  dusk  with  silver.  Your  flame 
is  but  the  spasmodic  flickering  of  a  spent  candle. 

And  yet,  'tis  but  a  few  short  years  since  these 
happy  girls  were  my  happy  playmates  in  the  flowery 
fields  of  pleasaunce,  and  my  boon  companions  in 
ambrosial  evenings,  when  we  drank  lustily  of  the 
juice  of  the  ripe  grapes  we  culled  from  the  gardens 
of  literature.  Alas,  alas,  I  have  been  promoted 
again,  by  the  Master  of  all  masters  this  time,  and 
I  must  needs  find  consolation  in  the  cold  isolation  of 


The  Silver  Age  7 

a  new  dignity,  that  of  the  oracle  who  is  consulted  on 
rare  occasions  only,  and  for  whom  there  is  no  place 
in  the  play  of  life.  Thus  it  is  that  I  am  again  very 
lonely. 

But,  by  St.  Athanasius,  I  do  resent  the  intrusion 
of  these  young  men  whose  silly  sallies  are  applauded 
with  such  heartfelt  laughter !  My  far  prof ounder 
and  far  richer  humor  never  met  such  hilarity  of 
greeting,  nor  was  it  ever  countered  by  such  brilliancy 
of  spontaneous  persiflage.  By  what  right  do  these 
mincing  fellows  hunt  on  my  preserves?  Who  are 
they  that  they  should  presume  to  oust  me  from  my 
place  in  the  lives  of  my  children?  How  dare  they 
thus  challenge  my  sovereignty  and  interfere  in  the 
exercise  of  my  natural  privilege? 

Ah,  back  to  your  musty  tome,  old  man,  and  don't 
be  an  ass!  Let  them  alone  to  make  their  memories 
of  happy  days,  even  as  you  made  yours  in  your  time, 
and  betake  yourself  to  your  own  memories,  for  these 
are  all  that  are  left  to  you  now — these  and  the 
silvered  beauty  of  the  dear  lady  opposite,  who  is 
still  smiling  at  her  fancies  like  the  true  philosopher 
she  is.  Take  example  by  her,  be  content  to  bask  in 
the  sunlight  of  youth,  and  be  thankful  to  the  kind 
fates  that  it  is  shining  for  you. 

I  turn  the  leaves  of  my  book  idly  for  a  few 
moments,  but  my  thoughts  give  me  no  rest. 

I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
That  were  most  precious  to  me. 

The  field  of  buttercups  with  its  lush  grass,  green 
and  tender  and  yielding  to  the  body  as  I  lie  with  face 
to  the  heaven's  mystery  of  blue.  A  soft  blowing  air 


8  The  Silver  Age 

from  the  south  comes  faintly  scented  with  the  brine 
of  the  sea.  It  was  here  that  I  first  knew  the  sweet 
companionship  of  children  just  budding  into  an 
awareness  of  life.  Here  the  little  ones  would  gather 
the  flowers  and  crown  me  with  posies,  or  run 
riotously  after  butterflies,  themselves  like  winged 
cherubs  in  their  windblown  skirts.  Here  they  would 
lie  down  beside  me,  rest  their  hot  heads  on  my 
breast  and  listen  to  the  tales  of  Robinson  Crusoe  and 
Aladdin's  wonderful  lamp.  Here  they  would  roll 
me  over  and  over  down  the  brae  to  the  hawthorn- 
blowing  hedge,  the  while  the  summer  breezes  carried 
abroad  the  liquid  notes  of  their  gurgling  delight. 
And  when  we  were  all  very  tired  from  the  day's 
strenuous  pleasures,  the  youngest  would  climb  up 
and  sit  astride  my  neck,  and  lay  its  little  black  head 
on  mine  in  sleep,  while  the  others  clung  to  my  coat 
and  held  my  fingers  tightly  clasped  with  their  warm, 
moist  hands,  as  we  marched  down  the  winding  lane 
to  the  cottage  by  the  stream  where  mother  stood 
waiting  with  her  heart  in  her  eyes.  I,  too,  have 
been  in  Arcadia. 

With  the  turning  of  the  leaves  of  my  book  I  turn 
the  seasons  also,  and  I  see  a  tiny,  white-painted 
wooden  house  in  a  cleft  of  the  hills  topped  with 
swaying  black  pines  and  redolent  of  the  scent  of 
balsam.  The  place  where  this  cottage  stands  is 
seven  days'  voyage  from  the  field  of  buttercups. 
Here,  on  summer  mornings  would  stand  before  me 
a  row  of  half-naked  little  brown  elfins,  while  I  held 
the  hose  and  played  over  them  the  cold  water  from 
the  upland  well.  How  these  leprechauns  do  dance 
in  the  spray  and  send  forth  shrieks  of  unrestrained 


The  Silver  Age  9 

glee  as  I  pipe  and  pipe  and  pipe!  Here  on  cool 
autumnal  evenings,  when  the  lamps  were  lit  and  the 
wood  fire  crackled  fraternally,  these  same  elves  of 
the  hills,  now  clad  in  white  nightgowns,  would  sit 
on  low  stools  round  the  hearth,  while  I  read  aloud 
to  their  eager  ears  the  pathetic  tale  of  Little  Dorrit's 
devotion,  or  unrolled  the  splendid  tapestry  of  "The 
Cloister  and  the  Hearth,"  or  chanted  the  wonderful 
deeds  of  the  Count  of  Monte  Cristo  and  the  en- 
trancing career  of  the  immortal  D'Artagnan.  What 
a  breathless  stillness  held  the  room  on  these  glowing 
nights !  I  see  again  the  mystery  of  wonder  and  awe 
with  which  the  big,  brown  eyes  ranged  around  me 
are  filled;  the  parted  lips  in  faces  transfigured  in  the 
light  of  the  visions  conjured  up  by  their  young 
imaginations;  the  nervous  clasping  and  unclasping 
of  little  hands  from  sympathy  with  suffering  and 
trials  and  victory  borne  with  heroic  dignity.  And 
when  the  reading  was  over  for  the  night,  what 
sighs  of  relief  from  their  overcharged  bosoms ! 

It  seems  to  me  now,  as  the  sounds  of  these  sighs 
reverberate  in  my  memory,  that  they  were  the 
beating  of  invisible  wings  of  angelic  thoughts  sent 
flying  from  the  impassioned  minds  of  these  little 
acolytes  serving  at  the  high  altar  of  romance.  How 
I  wish  now  I  had  gathered  them  and  stored  them 
in  my  heart  to  give  them  visible  shapes  in  the  days 
to  come  when  I  could  speak  with  them  on  a  fairer 
level  of  understanding!  But  a  wiser  heart  than 
mine  caught  them,  and  from  its  store  of  silken 
treasures  she  spun  the  threads  that  guided  me  later 
through  the  labyrinthine  corridors  of  these  children's 
souls.  And  I  see  her  as  she  sat  then,  darning  elfins' 


IO  The  Silver  Age 

stockings,  and  smiling  in  full  appreciation  at  me,  as 
with  back  and  shoulders  bent  and  clustered  with 
drooping  head,  I  mount  the  stairs  to  the  uncom- 
panioned  way  that  leads  all  happy  children  to  the 
star-spangled  skies  of  the  Land  of  Nod. 

I  am  still  turning  the  leaves  of  my  book,  and 
now  there  has  come  the  realization  of  our  dreams  of 
a  home  of  our  own  among  those  same  pine-crested 
hills — dreams  we  had  told  each  other  in  the  sweet 
intimacies  of  family  confidences.  It  is  a  red-roofed 
house,  white  and  green  in  the  clear  sunlight,  and 
within  it  a  spacious  living-room  walled  in  yellow 
stained  cedar  and  outlined  with  great  brown  beams 
of  spruce  and  hemlock.  At  one  end  is  the  broad 
and  deep  red-bricked  hearth  with  its  chimney  rising 
through  a  gallery  to  the  roof.  A  fat,  resinous  log 
of  native  pine  tongues  its  flaming  and  inviting  fra- 
ternity. In  wide  cushioned  armchairs  and  on  a 
high-backed  oaken  settle,  sit  young  women,  graceful 
as  fawns,  self-assured  in  a  tranquil  dignity,  yet  still 
tender  and  responsive  to  the  impress  of  loving  hands 
or  the  call  of  parental  appeal.  The  talk  is  no 
longer  a  monologue;  father  takes  somewhat  a  back 
seat  now,  for  these  ladies  have  minds  and  speech 
of  their  own.  They  play  with  bubble  fancies  blown 
from  pipes  in  which  are  flowing  the  living  waters  of 
their  sparkling  humor.  Ah,  dear  me,  what  a  com- 
pany we  were  then  of  mutual  entertainers,  around 
the  fireside  or  the  dinner  table!  How  we  lifted  our 
voices  in  song  to  the  glory  of  brave  hearts  of  oak 
and  in  praise  of  those  good  old  times  when  Joan's 
ale  was  new,  my  boys,  when  Joan's  ale  was  new! 
How  we  did  strut  our  amateur  mimic  stage  in 


The  Silver  Age  II 

impromptu  burlesques  which  revealed  so  shrewd  an 
insight  into  human  nature,  yet  took  account  of  the 
sweetness  of  human  hearts!  How  we  would  dance 
to  the  dronings  of  a  decrepit  gramophone  which 
rasped  out  a  music  only  bearable  by  light  hearts  and 
lighter  feet!  And  I  remember  also  steering  care- 
fully a  somewhat  portly  lady  with  silvered  hair 
through  those  mazes  of  "The  Blue  Danube"  we 
had  trodden  years  ago  when  time  had  been  enamored 
of  her  sylph-like  form.  "The  old  music  rings  yet  in 
my  ancient  ears." 

Ah,  that's  the  banging  of  the  outer  door!  They 
have  gone  to  their  play,  and  I  am  left  to  my  book 
and  the  gentle  dame  who  sits  opposite  to  me,  knit- 
ting socks  for  soldiers.  I  become  aware  that  I  am 
fingering  the  leaves  of  the  book  and  I  look  down, 
but  I  see  only  black  lines  across  white  paper.  It  is 
often  thus  now  when,  after  I  am  released  from  my 
wooden  desk  of  drudgery,  I  sit  at  home  reading,  that 
I  suddenly  see  nothing  but  black  lines  upon  white 
paper.  It  must  be  that  my  eyes  are  growing  dim 
with  age,  or  that  my  spectacles  become  moist  from 
the  vapor  in  the  room.  But  the  old  places  at  table 
are  vacant,  the  seats  by  the  fireside  are  empty,  and 
the  air  of  the  home  a  solemn  stillness  holds,  save  for 
the  clicking  of  knitting  needles  or,  occasionally,  the 
distant  ring  of  laughter  from  the  youngest,  who  is 
entertaining  and  fascinating  a  guileless  under- 
graduate. Ah,  me,  I  feel  I  have  been  dispossessed 
of  what  was  for  me  the  riches  of  my  life — the 
youth-preserving  elixir  which  I  nightly  distilled  from 
the  adventurous  hearts  and  joyous  faces  of  my 
children,  and  which  I  drank  for  my  earthly  salva- 


12  The  Silver  Age 

tion.  I  suppose  I  must  grin  and  abide  by  it.  Time 
is  merciless,  and  may  not  be  moved  by  regrets  or 
the  mere  turning  back  of  the  hands  on  the  face  of 
the  clock.  Yet  dare  I  nourish  a  hope?  Dare  I  be- 
lieve that  in  my  grandchildren  I  shall,  if  time  be 
kind,  rejuvenate  my  life-clinging  spirit?  Surely,  I 
may;  for  these  little  ones  who  come  fresh  from  the 
heart  of  God  have  the  true  wisdom  and  the  true 
love,  and  they  will  know  me  as  one  of  their  com- 
pany, and  welcome  me  as  going  to  the  place  they 
have  just  left.  "God's  speech  is  on  their  stammering 
tongue,  and  His  compassion  in  their  smile." 

Still,  it  is  not  easy  for  me  to  realize  that  I  am 
no  longer  of  an  age  interesting  to  youth;  that  I  am 
passe ,  a  back  number;  that  however  much  the  spirit 
in  me  is  still  willing,  I  have  really  lost  the  charm 
that  once  held.  Or  is  it  that  I  am  grown  to  second 
childhood  and  evince  its  senile  selfishness?  Surely 
not  yet,  not  yet!  For  despite  the  broad  bald  patch 
I  still  have  hair  enough  on  my  head  to  make  a 
decent  show  of  being  in  the  ranks  with  the  rest  and 
the  best  of  them.  And  I  do  not  ask  for  more  than 
my  fair  share — even  less  would  be  welcome.  I  will 
give  as  much  and  more  than  I  receive,  if  only  they 
will  give  me  the  chance,  if  only  they  will  ask  of  me. 
But  of  what  avail  is  this  camouflage  of  carefully 
brushed  hair  against  the  lynx  eyes  of  the  young! 
And  how  shall  I  arm  myself  against  youth's  magical 
instinct?  I  may  fool  my  contemporaries,  but  I  can- 
not deceive  these  divinely  gifted  beings  who  have  the 
untainted  scent  of  wild  animals  and  their  unerring 
insight.  At  best  my  gaiety  is  but  the  Indian  summer 
of  my  life,  and  already  the  sap  is  ceasing  to  flow, 


The  Silver  Age  13 

and  the  leaves  are  turning  brown,  ready  for  falling. 
They  are  right — my  wisdom  is  but  dullness,  my 
gambols  are  but  an  old  man's  folly,  my  leadership 
but  the  natural  circumspection  of  the  creature  whom 
circumstance  has  bereft  of  courage.  And  youth 
shall  be  neither  dull  nor  prudent.  Its  supreme  and 
splendid  virtues  are  the  wildness  and  freedom  of  its 
untarnished  beauty,  and  the  enthusiasm  of  its  arro- 
gant and  daring  heart. 

I  know  I  have,  of  late,  shown  disquieting  symp- 
toms. I  have  hesitated  when  entering  with  them 
on  their  adventures — the  waters  of  the  lake  are  cold, 
and  the  hills  are  steep,  I  must  confess.  I  shiver  on 
the  brink  and  I  pound  somewhat  heavily  on  the 
road  with  my  stick.  At  such  times  I  have  caught 
their  commiserating  looks  and  have  heard  them 
whispering  to  each  other  that  they  must  go  it  a 
little  slowly  with  father;  he  gets  tired  soon.  Bless 
their  dear  eyes,  I  was  tired  sooner  than  they  saw. 
They  do  not  come  to  me  so  often,  as  they  were 
wont,  for  my  advice,  for  they  have  learned  that  it 
does  not  chime  in  with  their  desires.  I  feel,  also, 
that  I  am  beginning  to  be  not  so  quick-witted  as  I 
once  was,  and  I  lag  behind  them  in  the  swift  play 
of  their  repartee.  Of  course,  I  would  have  been 
de  trop  among  the  theatre-party  to-night,  a  wet 
blanket,  a  tertium  quid,  a  well-meaning,  dear  old 

man,  but .  Ah,  there's  the  rub  I  There's  always 

that  "but"  when  golden  youth  assays  the  silver  age. 
Surely,  it  is  more  restful  and  proper  that  I  comport 
myself  with  my  peers ! 

"My  dear,"  I  say  to  the  lady  knitting  socks  for 
soldiers,  "shall  we  go  to  the  movies?" 


14  The  Silver  Age 

"You    silly   boy!"    the    lady    answers,    "you    are 
always  going  to  the  movies  now.     What  did  you 
do  when  there  were  no  movies?" 
"Ah,  my  dear,  I  had  you  then." 
"And  you  have  me  now,  have  you  not?" 
"Not  when  you  are  knitting  socks  for  soldiers." 
The  lady  looks  at  me  quizzingly  for  a  moment, 
then  she  lays  aside  her  knitting  and  comes  to  me 
with  her  golden  smile.     She  puts  her  hands  on  my 
shoulders  tenderly  and  murmurs: 
"You'll  never  grow  old." 


AN  ODD  VOLUME 


15 


AN  ODD  VOLUME 

A  GENERATION  ago  a  visitor  to  any  of  the  larger 
towns  of  England  could  always  find  recreation 
in  the  market-place  on  a  Saturday  evening, 
when  the  square,  lit  up  by  hanging  kerosene  lamps 
and  flaring  torches,  would  be  filled  with  a  good- 
natured  crowd  of  working  men  and  women,  bustling 
and  hustling  to  spend  their  week's  wages  on  their 
household  needs.  The  place  then  re-echoed  with  the 
leather-lunged  appeals  and  raucous  cries  of  the  mer- 
chants, who  were  all  clamoring  simultaneously  to 
attract  attention  and  entice  the  visitor  to  a  purchase. 
On  stalls,  carts,  wheelbarrows  and  even  the  bare 
stones  of  the  street,  were  displayed  for  sale  every 
conceivable  kind  of  commodity,  from  "pig's  trotters" 
for  the  night's  late  supper,  to  a  tarnished  gilt  volume 
for  the  parlor  table.  The  stall-keepers  button- 
holed the  passer-by  to  advise  him  of  the  golden  op- 
portunity for  a  bargain;  the  barrow-man  evinced  a 
persistent  sympathy  in  the  stranger's  welfare,  from 
a  like  intent;  and  the  crier  in  the  street  philan- 
thropically  offered  his  treasures  for  "a  song."  He 
who  hesitated  was  lost;  for  to  give  ear  to  the  per- 
suasive pleas  of  these  wizards  in  eloquence,  was  to 
become  as  clay  in  the  hands  of  master-potters.  The 
experience  of  the  moulding  process,  however,  was 
often  worth  the  price  of  admission  to  this  open-air 
theatre,  where  the  Human  Comedy  was  played 

17 


1 8  The  Silver  Age 

naturally  with  a  far  more  revealing  power  than  even 
the  art  of  Balzac  has  delineated  it. 

I  was  a  regular  frequenter  of  these  markets  in  my 
days  of  nonage,  though  my  interest  lay  neither  under 
the  sheds  nor  on  the  barrows.  I  preferred  to  listen 
to  the  orators  of  the  pave,  those  wingless  and 
leaden-footed  messengers  of  light,  who  brought  their 
merchandise  in  sacks  on  their  backs,  and  who  took 
their  stations  under  the  stars,  ready  to  stake  both 
fortune  and  life  on  their  tongues'  prowess.  These, 
as  a  rule,  were  booksellers,  poor  derelicts  of  the 
fraternity  who  had  been  wrecked  on  the  ocean  of 
life,  and  who  had  been  cast  on  the  rocks  with  just 
enough  means  to  pick  up  a  meagre  livelihood  by 
peddling  literature.  I  first  made  their  acquaintance 
when  the  buying  of  a  book  was  the  only  luxury  my 
pocket-money  permitted  me  to  enjoy;  and  as  I  recall 
the  many  delightful  hours  I  ha^ve  spent,  charmed 
by  these  wandering  spirits  from  the  Realm  of  Gold, 
I  am  once  again  a  citizen  of  Arcadia,  a  child  of 
romance  and  dreams. 

Among  the  many  booksellers  I  have  known,  one 
stands  out  in  my  memory  as  a  genius  in  the  busi- 
ness. He  belonged  to  that  lower  order  of  the  trade 
that  sell  books  by  the  method  known  as  "mock 
auction,"  the  method  of  which  Dickens's  Dr.  Mari- 
gold was  so  masterly  an  exponent.  It  was  on  a 
memorable  evening  in  the  late  autumn  that  I  first 
caught  sight  of  a  strangely  clad  figure  come  stump- 
ing into  the  square,  his  back  bent  almost  double  from 
the  weight  of  a  sack  he  was  carrying,  reminding  me 
of  the  picture  of  Atlas  in  my  school  geography.  He 
made  a  shuffling  noise  as  he  walked,  and  I  noticed 


An  Odd  Volume  19 

then  that  he  was  club-footed.  When  he  had  found 
a  suitable  space,  he  deposited  his  load  on  the  ground 
and  looked  about  him  with  a  smiling  face  as  he 
polished  his  iron-rimmed  spectacles  with  a  soiled 
bandanna  handkerchief.  Immediately  a  crowd  be- 
gan to  gather  about  him  and  I  followed  with  the 
rest.  After  emptying  the  sack  of  its  contents  on  the 
stones,  he  motioned  to  us  to  form  a  wider  circle 
around  him,  remarking  that  he  wished  everyone  of 
us  to  see  the  rich  treasures  he  had  brought  for  our 
mental  delectation,  our  moral  improvement,  and  our 
spiritual  enlightenment.  The  broad,  good-humored 
face  looked  at  us  benignly,  its  rubicund  nose  glow- 
ing like  a  red  lamp  from  a  distant  train,  through  a 
mist  of  pale,  sandy  hair  in  which  his  massive  head 
was  widely  framed.  His  clothes,  stained,  greasy 
and  ill-fitting,  seemed  to  be  just  hanging  on  his  body 
— a  nondescript  figure  of  seeming  power,  yet  pa- 
thetic in  a  tattered  dignity.  But  I  forgot  all  about 
his  appearance  when  he  held  aloft  one  of  the  volumes, 
and  began  to  speak  in  a  rich,  resonant  voice  which 
came  from  him  like  the  note  of  an  organ. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "I  am  one  of 
those  unfortunate  beings,  happily  not  very  common 
in  this  vale  of  tears,  who  are  known  as  philosophers. 
Ah,  I  see  you  do  not  understand  me.  Well,  my 
good  friends  and  fellow  sufferers,  a  philosopher  is 
a  man  who  was  born  under  an  unlucky  star;  a  man 
doomed,  therefore,  to  be  disappointed;  a  man  always 
hoping  and  never  realizing  his  hopes.  If  you  ask 
me  why  he  should  be  so  afflicted,  I  cannot  answer. 
It  may  be  it  is  because  of  his  tender  heart  which  his 
nature  will  not  permit  him  to  harden.  That's  the 


2O  The  Silver  Age 

cross  he  has  to  bear  through  life.  Do  you  wonder 
that  such  a  man  is  doomed  to  disappointment? 
What  chance  has  any  man  with  a  kind  heart  in  this 
world?  Ah,  my  dear  friends,  it's  a  great  mistake 
to  try  to  do  good  to  people.  They  will  never  be- 
lieve you  are  sincere.  Your  most  unselfish  actions 
are  certain  to  be  misinterpreted,  and  the  more  you 
protest  your  honesty  the  more  will  you  be  suspected 
of  a  secret  purpose  to  get  the  better  of  others.  The 
philosopher,  who  is,  of  course,  a  simple-minded  man, 
cannot  understand  this.  He  is  so  simple-hearted 
himself  that  he  thinks  everybody  else  is  as  honest  as 
he  is,  so  that  he  is  almost  broken-hearted  at  the  cruel 
mockeries  which  greet  him  on  every  side.  That's 
the  tragedy  of  every  good  man's  life.  You  and  I 
know  that  only  too  well;  and  yet  we  cannot  help 
being  what  we  are,  can  we?  But  it  would  not  be 
half  so  bad  if  we  could  find  someone,  if  only  once 
in  a  great  while,  who  really  believed  in  us.  It  is  in 
the  hope  of  finding  that  one  man  that  the  philosopher 
goes  about  the  world,  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  so 
to  speak,  seeking  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  his 
nature,  to  be  a  friend  and  a  benefactor.  For  twenty- 
five  years  now  I  have  been  wandering  in  search  of 
someone  to  whom  I  could  do  good,  and  I  am  still 
looking  for  him.  That's  what  brings  me  here  to- 
day. And  as  I  look  around  me  and  see  your  in- 
telligent faces  with  the  light  of  friendship  shining 
from  your  eyes,  I  am  beginning  to  feel  that  my 
hope  will  be  realized  at  last,  and  that  I  shall  have 
the  happiness  of  knowing  that  I  have  not  lived  in 
vain. 

"My  friends,  I  am  here  to  do  you  the  best  service 


An  Odd  Volume  21 

any  man  can  do  to  another.  You  may  not  think  so, 
but  it's  the  most  solemn  truth  I  ever  uttered  in  my 
life.  You  shake  your  heads  and  smile?  Well,  I 
don't  blame  you.  I've  heard  others  talk  as  I  am 
talking,  and  I  know  how  little  it  amounts  to.  I 
have  drunk  the  bitter  waters  of  patronage,  and 
tasted  the  ashes  in  the  Dead  Sea  fruit  of  philan- 
thropy. But  my  way  of  doing  good  is  not  the 
parson's  way,  nor  the  charity  society's  way,  nor  the 
missionary's  way.  These  people  when  they  do  any- 
thing for  you,  make  you  feel  small  and  mean,  as 
though  you  were  of  no  account,  as  if  they  were 
everything  and  you  nothing  but  objects  for  pity. 
That's  not  doing  good;  that's  doing  worse  than 
bad.  My  way  is  just  the  opposite  to  their  way. 
When  I  do  you  good,  I  make  you  feel  big,  and  as 
deserving  as  I  am  myself."  Here  he  smiled  archly 
at  us  with  a  humorous  twinkle  glinting  through  his 
spectacles. 

"Does  it  do  you  any  good  to  go  to  church?  No! 
Why?  Because  it's  no  use  going  to  church  with  an 
empty  mind.  Does  it  do  you  any  good  to  receive 
charity?  No!  Why?  Because  it  makes  you  feel 
cheap  and  weakens  your  power  for  work.  Does  it 
do  you  any  good  to  give  your  pennies  to  save 
niggers'  souls?  No!  Why?  Because  you've  got 
souls  of  your  own  to  save  first.  Now  I  do  you 
good  by  selling  you  books.  You  look  surprised. 
You  don't  see  what  good  there  can  be  in  buying  a 
book?  Well,  if  you'll  kindly  give  me  your  attention, 
I'll  explain.  A  good  book  will  fill  your  minds  with 
high  thoughts,  so  that  you  can  go  to  church  and 
meet  your  God  with  understanding;  a  good  book 


22  The  Silver  Age 

will  inspire  you  with  courage,  so  that  you  may  have 
the  heart  to  be  as  God  intended  you  to  be — brave, 
and  free,  and  equal  with  the  best;  a  good  book  will 
put  a  spirit  of  hope  into  your  breasts,  so  that  you 
will  believe  in  the  dignity  of  your  manhood,  and 
live  up  to  it.  That's  what  books  will  do  for  you, 
and  that's  the  kind  of  good  I  do  by  selling  them  to 
you.  Do  you  look  for  a  friend?  Can  you  find  a 
kinder,  a  wiser  or  a  truer  friend  than  a  good  book? 
Arc  you  lonely  and  long  for  some  one  to  talk  to? 
Can  you  have  a  more  sincere  or  a  more  elevating 
conversation  than  with  a  good  book?  Books  never 
get  tired  of  you,  and  if  you  get  tired  of  them,  you 
can  put  them  aside  without  hurting  their  feelings. 
They  are  always  calm  and  in  good  temper  and 
ready  to  serve  you.  They  don't  scold  or  find  fault 
with  you  or  make  you  angry  or  make  you  feel 
ashamed  of  your  ignorance.  They  will  laugh  with 
you  and  cry  with  you.  They  bring  the  smiles  of  in- 
nocence and  the  sighs  of  hope  and  the  tears  of 
sympathy.  They  make  you  forget  your  troubles  and 
lift  you  on  the  wings  of  delight.  In  sorrow  they 
are  a  comfort,  and  in  joy  a  companion.  And,  what 
is  perhaps  more  satisfying  than  anything  else,  they 
treat  you  like  a  gentleman.  With  a  good  book  by 
the  fireside,  you  are  in  the  best  society,  as  good,  aye, 
and  better,  as  the  noblest  and  richest  in  the  land. 
And  all  this  kindness,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  all  this 
enjoyment  and  instruction,  costs  you  what?  Only 
a  few  pence.  Why,  you'd  give  your  heads  to  have 
the  King  of  England  talk  to  you  for  five  minutes 
in  a  friendly  chat,  and  yet  here,  for  a  shilling,  you 
can  have  the  Kings  of  Thought — Shakespeare  and 


An  Odd  Volume  23 

Milton,  Cervantes  and  Johnson — talk  to  you  by  the 
hour,  or  for  as  long  as  you  like,  at  your  own  con- 
venience and  pleasure.  Did  I  say  a  shilling?  Why 
what  have  we  here?"  With  a  fine  gesture  he 
opened  the  book  he  held  in  his  hand.  "A-ah!  Now 
this  is  something  worth  while !  Here  is  an  old  and 
tried  and  trusty  friend."  He  patted  the  worn  calf- 
binding  with  affectionate  strokes,  as  he  turned  to  us 
a  countenance  beaming  with  anticipatory  delight. 
"Listen  to  this:  'If  a  man  does  not  make  new 
acquaintances  as  he  advances  through  life,  he  will 
soon  find  himself  alone.  A  man,  sir,  should  keep 
his  friendship  in  constant  repair.'  There's  wisdom 
for  you!  Keep  your  friendship  in  constant  repair 
and  you'll  find  a  hand  stretched  out  to  help  you,  a 
smile  ready  to  greet  you,  a  heart  eager  to  comfort 
you.  The  man  who  wrote  those  words  was  one  of 
the  wisest  Englishmen  who  ever  lived.  He  knew 
what  life  meant,  for  he  had  suffered  and  had  often 
known  what  it  was  to  go  hungry,  as  you  and  I  have 
known.  But  he  never  lost  heart.  Through  all  his 
trials  and  troubles  he  lived,  as  all  true-born  English- 
men should  live,  with  courage  and  a  noble  determina- 
tion to  be  true  to  the  best  he  knew.  And  the  time 
came  when  he  was  recognized  as  a  great  man,  when 
even  the  King  of  England  was  glad  to  receive  and 
shake  the  hand  of  the  man  who  had  compiled  the 
first  great  dictionary  of  the  English  language.  That 
man,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  was  Dr.  Samuel  John- 
son, and  this  book  is  the  story  of  his  life,  written 
by  James  Boswell,  a  gentleman  of  Scotland,  who 
worshipped  the  very  ground  Johnson  walked  on. 
Did  I  say  a  shilling?  I  did;  but  I  see  from  your 


24  The  Silver  Age 

pleading  faces,  my  good  friends,  that  you  want  this 
book,  and  as  I  haven't  the  heart  to  ask  you  more 
than  you  can  afford  to  pay,  I'll  make  it  ninepence. 
Ninepence,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  for  the  life  of  a 
great  Englishman!  Ah,  I  see  you  know  my  tender 
nature.  Well,  my  dear  fellow-sufferers  in  this  bleak 
Aceldama  of  sorrow,  you  have  touched  my  sym- 
pathies. I  know  what  it  is  to  want  a  good  thing 
and  not  have  the  price,  so  I'll  put  it  at  sixpence, 
though  I  am  making  you  a  present  of  the  book  at 
that  figure.  Sixpence  for  a  book  of  the  wisest  ad- 
vice ever  written  for  human  beings !  Why,  the  bind- 
ing alone  cost  ten  times  the  money!  Don't  let  me 
go  away  disappointed !  Surely,  there's  one  man  in 
this  assembly  worthy  the  name.  Ah,  my  little  man, 
thank  you,  I  congratulate  you  on  your  purchase. 
You'll  never  regret  spending  this  sixpence ;  and  you'll 
live  to  thank  me  for  introducing  you  to  this  master- 
piece of  literature." 

I  passed  him  my  sixpence  with  a  trembling  hand 
and  eagerly  seized  the  precious  tome.  I  had  been 
so  wrought  up  by  the  bookseller's  moving  address 
that  I  could  not  refrain  from  opening  the  book, 
then  and  there,  to  taste  and  see  for  myself  the 
splendid  feast  he  had  conjured  up  in  my  mind.  My 
first  glance  fell  on  the  title-page,  and  there  to  my 
puzzled  astonishment,  I  read  the  words,  "Volume 
the  Second."  For  a  moment  I  was  in  doubt,  but 
the  last  page  confirmed  my  incipient  fear,  for  I  saw 
there  printed  in  large  letters,  "End  of  Volume 
Two." 

"Here,"  I  cried  excitedly  to  the  bookseller,  who 
was  already  launched  in  the  exordium  of  a  second 


An  Odd  Volume  25 

oration,  "this  is  only  the  second  volume;  where's  the 
rest?" 

The  red-nosed  Diogenes  stopped  in  his  discourse 
and  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  in  speechless  sur- 
prise. Such  an  interruption  was  evidently  quite  un- 
expected, coming  as  it  did  from  a  mere  boy.  But 
he  recovered  himself  easily,  however,  and  smiling 
amiably,  he  said  in  a  voice  charged  with  tender  ad- 
miration, "You're  an  unusually  bright  lad  and  I'm 
glad  to  know  you."  He  came  a  step  forward  to  me 
and  said  in  a  gentle  voice,  "The  second  volume,  my 
boy,  though  you  may  not  know  it,  is  the  best  of  the 
set.  The  other  volumes  are  not  a  patch  on  that 
one.  A  complete  set  would  cost  you  ten  shillings, 
at  least,  in  that  edition;  but  here,  for  sixpence, 
you've  got  the  cream  of  the  work.  Still,  I  don't 
want  you  to  go  away  thinking  I've  imposed  on  you, 
and  as  you  are  a  deserving  lad,  as  well  as  an  in- 
telligent one,  I'll  make  you  a  present  of  another 
book  to  make  up  for  it.  Here's  the  first  volume  of 
'The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  with  beautiful  steel  en- 
gravings. It's  the  best  volume  of  the  best  story 
ever  written  in  any  language.  If  you  don't  like  it 
after  you've  read  it,  come  back  here  next  Saturday 
and  I'll  exchange  it  for  something  else.  There,  gen- 
tlemen," he  said,  turning  to  his  audience  with  a 
finely  impressive  air,  "there's  a  boy  after  my  own 
heart.  I'd  be  proud  to  be  the  father  of  such  a  son. 
He'll  grow  up  to  be  a  great  man,  mark  my  words. 
I  daresay  he'll  write  a  book  himself,  some  day." 
And  the  gracious  enchanter  patted  my  shoulder  and 
resumed  his  second  address,  as  if  nothing  unusual 
had  occurred. 


26  The  Silver  Age 

I  did  not  quite  see  that  I  was  any  the  better  ad- 
vantaged by  being  given  an  odd  volume  of  another 
work  to  match  the  odd  volume  I  had  bought,  but 
a  natural  shyness  prevented  me  from  arguing  the 
point  in  public,  especially  with  so  erudite  and  ac- 
complished a  master,  and  I  was  also  greatly  ill  at 
ease  at  being  made  the  object  of  so  much  attention; 
besides,  he  was  already  deep  in  an  exposition  of  the 
beauties  of  Fielding's  "Tom  Jones."  So  I  said  no 
more,  but,  waiting  to  be  unobserved,  I  edged  out  of 
the  crowd  quietly  and  ran  off  home  with  my  two 
books,  which  I  kept  for  many  years  as  souvenirs  of 
my  early  adventures  in  book-collecting. 

This  was  not  my  only  meeting  with  the  gay  de- 
ceiver, though  I  was  ever  afterwards  very  careful  not 
to  spend  any  more  of  my  meagre  allowance  on  his 
wares.  I  found  out,  later,  that  his  sacks  of  books 
contained  nothing  but  odd  volumes.  Only  once  did 
I  see  him  sell  a  complete  work,  and  that  was  a 
soiled  copy  of  a  "Keepsake"  from  which  the  plates 
were  missing.  Still,  the  man  had  cast  the  spell  of 
his  charm  over  me,  and  his  voice  was  music  in  my 
ears.  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  that  draws  one 
to  a  dealer  in  old  books,  but  it  is  a  curious  fact 
that  he  has  a  power  of  attraction  that  no  other 
man  of  business  holds.  It  may  be  that  this  power 
is  born  of  our  own  interest  in  him.  Our  innocent 
feelings  and  desires  which  are  nursed  by  association 
with  books  we,  perhaps,  unconsciously  credit  the 
bookseller  as  also  possessing,  and  so  we  come  to 
look  upon  him,  not  as  a  cold  man  of  business,  but 
as  a  kindred  and  sympathetic  spirit.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  the  man  belongs  to  a  class  of  his  own.  He  is 


An  Odd  Volume  27 

dyed  with  a  sweet  melancholy,  as  if  the  spirits 
of  the  disappointed  and  forgotten  authors  whose 
unsold  books  fill  the  shelves  of  his  shop,  had  gradu- 
ally passed  into  him  and  saturated  his  nature.  He 
looks  out  on  the  world  as  if  it  were  a  passing  show, 
for  which  he  has,  at  best,  but  a  kindly  tolerance  or 
a  gracious  condescension.  He  gives  the  impres- 
sion that  he  lives  in  a  far  more  interesting  and 
desirable  world.  He  is  not  discontented,  rarely  dis- 
turbed, and  seemingly  utterly  indifferent  as  to 
whether  or  not  he  sells  some  of  his  books  for 
which,  indeed,  he  has  conceived  an  affection  as  pas- 
sionate as  that  of  the  bibliophile's.  The  Kingdom 
of  the  Mind  must,  surely,  be  a  beautiful  place 
in  which  to  live,  even  if  the  checks  we  draw  on 
the  banks  there  are  not  accepted  by  our  landlords 
here. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  booksellers  of  a  generation 
ago.  Those  of  the  present  day  are  of  a  different 
genus,  and  I  can  weave  no  romances  nor  indulge 
in  fancies  about  them,  for  I  confess,  they  are 
beyond  my  ken.  Time  was  when  I  thought  they 
also  were  as  innocent  as  doves,  but  I  have  since 
found  them  to  be  wiser  than  serpents.  No,  it  is  to 
the  booksellers  of  my  youthful  days  that  my  heart 
goes  out  in  an  affection  deep  as  it  is  exalting.  It 
may  be  that  my  loyalty  to  my  old  loves  is  born  of 
the  bargains  I  once  fished  out  of  their  boxes  and 
stalls,  bargains  rarely  found  now ;  but  I  am  sure 
this  is  not  the  true  reason  for  my  self-impobed 
exile  from  the  land  of  books.  I  would  still  be 
willing  to  walk  many  miles  to  meet  another  such 
Diogenes  as  my  old  acquaintance  of  the  odd 


28  The  Silver  Age 

volumes,  or  my  friend  of  sacred  memory,  Eli 
Sholes,  that  rare  mind  and  chastened  spirit  who 
initiated  me  into  the  mysteries  of  the  higher  de- 
grees of  the  Masonry  of  literature.  Gladly  would 
I  present  to  the  New  York  Public  Library,  that 
rare  "Olor  Iscanus,"  I  bought  for  sixpence;  or 
that  Walton's  "Lives"  with  old  Izaak's  autograph 
on  the  title-page,  I  bought  for  threepence;  or  that 
Suckling's  "Fragmenta  Aurea"  of  1646,  I  picked 
up  for  a  shilling;  or  that  original  quarto  of 
Burton's  "Anatomy  of  Melancholy,"  with  the  leaf 
of  "Errata,"  I  acquired  for  a  crown,  if  I  could 
live  again  those  recreating  hours  of  pure  aspira- 
tions I  experienced  in  listening  to  that  orator  of 
the  market-place,  or  that  wise  expositor  of  Shakes- 
peare and  Swift,  the  dealer  in  rare  books.  But, 
alas,  those  flowers  of  our  human  kind  are  passed 
away  with  the  snows  of  yesteryear  I 

As  I  have  stated,  Diogenes  drew  me  to  him, 
and  as  regularly  as  Saturday  came  round  I  would 
be  in  the  square  waiting  for  him.  Sometimes  he 
failed  to  turn  up,  and  then  I  was  very  disap- 
pointed. He  explained  such  absences  on  his  return, 
by  smilingly  informing  us  that  he  had  other 
parishes  to  minister  to,  which  would  starve  with- 
out the  intellectual  food  he  brought  them.  On 
one  occasion  he  told  us  that  he  had  been  in  retreat 
purifying  his  soul;  and  the  pathetic  smile  which 
accompanied  his  words  still  lingers  in  my  memory. 
His  talk,  as  I  recall  it  now,  was  the  most  de- 
lightful of  conversations,  enlivened  by  many  a 
merry  tale  of  broad  humor  which  always  appealed 
strongly  to  his  audiences.  He  knew,  or  at  least 


An  Odd  Volume  29 

it  appeared  so  to  me,  the  lives  of  all  the  great 
men  who  had  written  books  or  played  important 
parts  in  the  world's  history:  and  his  disquisitions 
on  their  merits  were  embroidered  with  the  gold 
thread  of  a  shrewd  judgment.  He  described  situa- 
tions with  so  fine  a  skill  that  I  would  marvel  at 
the  scenes  he  conjured  up  in  my  imagination.  It 
was  always  with  something  of  a  shock  that  I 
heard  him  call  out  the  price  of  a  book  and  ask 
for  a  buyer,  so  completely  had  he  enthralled  me. 
Over  Shakespeare  and  Milton  he  would  wax  elo- 
quent indeed.  He  recited  from  "Paradise  Lost" 
in  a  voice  resonant  with  the  rhythmic  music  of  the 
splendid  processional  of  the  lines.  It  was  from 
him  that  I  first  heard  Hamlet's  soliloquy,  and  he 
rendered  it  with  dramatic  gestures  in  a  musing  in- 
tonation of  voice  that  were  fulfilled  of  reflective 
thought.  Neither  Henry  Irving  nor  Forbes-Rob- 
ertson, with  all  the  accompaniments  of  their  scen- 
ery and  costume,  affected  me  since,  as  did  then 
this  unkempt  bookseller,  declaiming  in  the  foul- 
smelling  air  of  that  noisy,  crowded  thoroughfare. 

In  time,  he  and  I  came  to  know  each  other  bet- 
ter. When  he  would  catch  sight  of  me  in  the 
front  row  of  the  circle  of  his  listeners,  he  would 
smile  kindly,  and  then  bend  his  discourse  to  me, 
seeming  to  find  inspiration  in  the  rapt  attention  I 
gave  him.  Frequently,  after  he  had  succeeded  in 
disposing  of  a  book  for  the  price  he  originally 
asked  for  it,  he  would  come  up  and  whisper  to  me 
to  keep  an  eye  on  his  stock  while  he  retired  for 
a  few  minutes.  I  noticed  when  he  returned  that 
his  nose  glowed  a  deeper  red,  and,  occasionally,  his 


30  The  Silver  Age 

gait  would  be  far  from  steady.  But  the  interlude 
seemed  to  have  fired  his  imagination  to  a  higher 
pitch,  for  he  would  resume  with  a  power  of  appeal 
that  never  failed  to  bring  increased  patronage, 
and,  sometimes,  left  him,  as  he  put  it,  "sold  out." 
Then  he  would  fold  his  sack,  and  with  a  parting 
sally  and  a  promise  to  be  back  another  day,  he 
would  stump  off  and  disappear  in  the  blackness 
of  the  night. 

As  I  watched  the  bent  figure  shuffling  away  I 
could  not  help  speculating  as  to  where  he  went  to 
rest.  Was  it  to  a  home  where  children  were  wait- 
ing expectantly  for  their  father?  Did  they  look 
for  his  coming  as  I  did,  to  be  charmed  and  de- 
lighted by  the  magic  of  his  speech  and  the  music 
of  his  embracing  voice?  Several  times  I  followed 
him  out  of  boyish  curiosity,  but  I  always  lost  him 
in  a  dark  court,  where  he  vanished  through  the 
doorway  of  a  saloon.  Once,  I  waited  for  him 
to  come  out,  but  the  sight  that  met  my  eyes  in 
the  gloom  was  so  distressing  that  my  courage  failed 
me,  and  I  ran  pantingly  home,  haunted  all  the 
way  by  a  face  that  still  visits  me  in  disturbing 
dreams.  That  was  my  last  pilgrimage  to  the 
market-place. 

Several  years  later,  as  I  was  sitting  in  the  back 
of  Sholes's  shop,  discussing  with  him  George 
Meredith's  "The  Egoist,"  we  heard  a  heavy 
stumping  on  the  boarded  floor,  as  of  one  walking 
with  difficulty.  I  looked  up,  and  to  my  amaze- 
ment, saw  the  spectacled  face  of  my  old  friend  of 
the  odd  volumes.  Sholes  rose  quickly  and  met 
him  half  way. 


An  Odd  Volume  31 

"Well,  Ollie,"  I  heard  him  inquire,  "are  you 
any  better?" 

"No,  Mr.  Sholes,  I  regret  to  say  this  rheuma- 
tism is  killing  me  by  inches.  I  rarely  sleep  at 
nights.  I'm  afraid  there'll  be  nothing  for  it  but 
the  workhouse  hospital.  I  called  to  know  if  you've 
anything  for  me  to-day." 

"There's  a  pile  in  that  corner  I've  been  keep- 
ing for  you  for  weeks.  Where  have  you  been?" 

"Oh,  the  usual  place,  in  solitude  where  we 
are  least  alone." 

"Ah!" 

"I'm  ashamed  to  confess  it.  But  what  else  is 
there  left  for  me?" 

"I  know  how  you  feel,  Ollie,  but  are  you  sure 
you  couldn't  make  a  final  effort?  I'll  help  you 
gladly  to  start  a  stall.  That's  better  than  the 
open  air,  with  your  rheumatism." 

"Ah,  Mr.  Sholes,  you're  very  kind  as  you 
always  have  been.  But  I  know  my  own  weak- 
ness. Unhappily  I  am  one  of  those  that  must  'live 
in  the  wild  anarchy  of  drink.'  I  couldn't  be  tied 
to  a  stall.  I  must  go  on  at  the  old  game  until 
death  comes  with  his  friendly  care." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  you  know  yourself  best." 

Sholes  helped  him  to  fill  his  sack,  and  I  watched 
the  figure  stumping  ?way,  bent  beneath  the  double 
weight  of  his  books  and  afflictions. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  I  asked  Sholes. 

"Ah,  that's  a  tragedy,"  he  answered.  "If  you 
want  to  hear  a  genius  go  and  listen  to  him.  The 
booksellers  of  the  town  make  him  gifts  of  their 


32  The  Silver  Age 

odd  volumes  and  he  makes  his  living  by  selling 
them  in  the  public  markets." 

I  then  told  of  my  own  experience  of  the  man 
which  amused  Sholes  exceedingly. 

"Well,  Ollie  was  right;  you  never  regretted 
your  purchase.  Now  there's  a  man  who  sets  me 
speculating  on  the  mystery  of  the  human  soul.  We 
call  him  Ollie,  which  is  friendly  for  Oliver,  for 
we  all  love  the  man  despite  his  failing — his  sur- 
name had  better  remain  in  oblivion.  He  has  been 
everybody's  friend  and  his  own  worst  enemy.  I 
knew  him  many  years  ago  as  the  head  master  of 
one  of  the  grammar  schools  founded  by  Edward 
VI,  in  a  small  provincial  town.  He  was  then 
highly  esteemed  throughout  the  country.  A  ripe 
scholar,  both  in  the  Classics  and  in  English,  he 
had  also  a  power  of  conversation  and  a  charm  of 
address,  which  opened  to  him  the  doors  of  the 
best  houses.  As  a  teller  of  tales  I  have  never 
heard  his  equal.  He  had  a  remarkable  memory 
on  which  he  drew  for  quotations  and  apt  allusions, 
that  served  to  add  grace  to  the  thoughts  he  framed 
in  the  choicest  language,  and  spoke  in  a  voice  of 
most  appealing  quality.  Did  you  hear  him  quote 
from  Ben  Jonson,  Byron  and  Coleridge,  in  the 
few  sentences  he  spoke  to  me  just  now?  His 
range  of  reading  must  be  immense.  These  gifts, 
were  unhappily  his  undoing.  He  grew  inordi- 
nately vain  of  his  powers  and  the  impression  he 
made,  and  began  to  think  himself  everybody's 
superior.  The  good  living  in  the  homes  of  the 
wealthy,  and  the  tastes  he  acquired  there,  sapped 
his  moral  fibre.  Drink  became  a  passion  with 


An  Odd  Volume  33 

him,  and  in  time  he  grew  intolerable  even  to  his 
most  forbearing  friends.  Then  the  descent  was 
only  too  easy.  He  lost  the  mastership  of  the 
school  and  ruined  his  home  which  had  been  the 
pride  of  a  noble-hearted  sister,  who  died  of  grief 
at  his  degradation.  After  that  he  became  a  fre- 
quenter of  the  bar-parlors  of  inns,  where  he  con- 
tinued to  hold  forth  to  farmers,  commercial  trav- 
ellers and  even  common  rustics.  He  charmed 
these  as  he  had  charmed  the  others,  for  a  time, 
and  they  fed  his  vanity  and  his  craving  for  drink. 
But  at  last  even  they  grew  tired  of  his  drunken 
assertiveness,  and  he  was  left  to  wander  from  place 
to  place,  making  a  living  by  peddling  books.  I 
have  often  thought  of  Ollie  and  his  shattered  life. 
His  kind  of  vanity  is  a  terrible  disease.  I  can 
understand  a  pride  in  one's  mental  powers.  That 
keeps  alive  a  man's  faith  in  himself,  and  is  often 
very  necessary  for  him  to  achieve  success.  Socrates 
and  Shakespeare  must  have  been  such  egoists, 
Samuel  Johnson  was  another,  Victor  Hugo  another, 
But  to  be  vain  of  those  powers  which  demand  the 
body  as  a  medium,  that  must  debase  if  carried  to 
anything  like  an  extreme.  Ollie  was  an  actor  in 
everything  he  did.  His  fine  voice,  his  mobile 
features,  his  humorous,  expressive  eyes,  his  im- 
pressive manner  and  noble  speech,  all  these  were 
cultivated  and  employed  for  the  sake  of  the  ap- 
plause which  fed  his  vanity,  and  the  genius  was 
lost  in  the  mummer.  Ollie  then  was  doomed  to 
futility,  to  be  a  mere  entertainer  at  a  feast.  Even 
now,  open-eyed  and  repentant  as  he  is,  if  you  were 
to  give  him  a  good  dinner  and  a  bottle  of  wine, 


34  The  Silver  Age 

as,  I  regret  to  say,  I  have  occasionally  done  for 
my  own  amusement,  the  fellow  will  strut  an  imag- 
inary stage  as  though  he  were  the  whole  play. 
It's  a  fatal  gift,  this  of  the  body's  attributes,  when 
the  mind  does  not  control  them.  I  remember  a 
famous  minister  of  religion  highly  endowed  as  a 
preacher,  say,  after  he  had  deeply  moved  his 
congregation  with  one  of  his  noble  sermons:  'Did 
you  see  them  cry  and  wipe  their  eyes?  Oh,  I 
can  do  with  them  what  I  like !'  There  spoke  the 
vain  actor,  not  the  proud  bearer  of  a  spiritual 
message.  Vanity  may  be  a  charming  weakness  in 
women,  but  in  men  it's  a  disease,  a  sort  of  moral 
elephantiasis,  when  the  virtues  run  to  seed  and  are 
permitted  to  grow  to  vices  again.  Few  who  ven- 
ture on  this  sea  of  self-esteem  ever  reach  a  haven 
of  salvation  who  do  not  steer  their  course  by  the 
pole-star  of  the  guiding  soul.  Had  Socrates  been 
as  handsome  as  Alcibiades  I  question  if  Plato 
would  have  written  the  Phaedo  or  the  Apology. 
'The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 
make  instruments  to  plague  us.'  The  fire  we 
have  caught  from  heaven  to  light  our  soul's  way, 
more  often  burns  up  our  hearts,  or  we  use  it  to 
forge  the  chains  which  bind  us  to  the  rock  of  our 
baser  passions." 

A  month  later  I  had  occasion  to  call  on  Sholes 
on  a  matter  of  business,  and  was  surprised  to  find 
him  wearing  a  high  silk  hat  with  a  broad  black 
band.  "You  are  just  in  time,"  he  said,  "I  am 
going  to  poor  Ollie's  funeral.  He  died  the  other 
day  and  the  booksellers  have  asked  me  to  say  a 
few  words  at  his  grave.  Will  you  come?" 


An  Odd  Volume  35 

I  went  willingly,  and  when  we  arrived  at  the 
cemetery  we  found  about  a  dozen  members  of 
the  local  trade  already  waiting  for  us.  After 
the  clergyman  had  read  the  last  sentences  of  the 
beautiful  Church  of  England  service  for  the  dead, 
and  the  coffined  body  had  been  consigned  to  its 
final  home,  Sholes  spoke: 

"My  friends,"  he  said  in  his  soft,  mellow 
voice,  "he  whom  we  have  just  laid  to  rest  was  a 
rare  man,  though  one  of  many  failings.  But  his 
troubling  heart  will  trouble  him  no  more.  We, 
who  are  here  to  do  him  this  our  last  service  of 
respect,  may  never  forget  the  fine  qualities  of 
character  which  were  his  shining  gifts  and  which 
he  so  bountifully  poured  out  for  our  enjoyment. 
He  was  ever  ready  to  do  a  kindness  where  reward 
was  impossible,  and  always  willing  to  give  of  the 
best  he  had  to  give.  And  his  best  was  a  rare 
thing.  I  knew  our  friend  in  those  years  when  he 
was  honored  by  his  peers  and  welcomed  by  those  in 
high  places  as  an  equal.  Had  you  known  him 
then  you  would  understand  my  feelings  now,  as  I 
stand  here  by  his  grave,  and  speed  him  to  God 
who  will  forgive  him  all  because  He  knows  all. 
With  his  death  falls  from  him  all  that  was  gross 
and  impure,  and  there  remain,  living  in  our 
memories  while  life  shall  last,  the  brilliant  scholar, 
the  delightful  companion,  the  charming  gentleman, 
the  large-hearted  friend,  whom  we  were  proud  to 
help  in  his  need,  and  whose  like  we  shall  never 
meet  again.  In  thinking  of  him  thus  we  shall 
bear  his  spirit  company  along  the  uncompanioned 


36  The  Silver  Age 

way  he  now  treads,  and  speak  for  him  before  the 
Judgment  Seat.  This  it  is  our  privilege  as  well  as 
our  duty  to  do,  and  in  doing  it  we  shall  strengthen 
and  fortify  ourselves  with  the  best  that  was  of 
our  friend." 


THE  LADY  AND  THE 
SINGING-BIRD 


37 


THE  LADY  AND  THE  SINGING-BIRD 

ELI  SHOLES  sat  at  the  far  end  of  his  little 
book-shop,  feet  on  fender  before  a  blazing 
coal  fire,  reading  the  morning's  newspaper. 
The  day  was  dull  and  misty,  of  the  kind  that  is  so 
frequent  in  the  late  autumn  on  the  west  coast  of 
England.  Puffs  of  heavy  white  vapor,  dimming 
the  yellow  gas  jets,  were  being  blown  into  the  shop 
by  a  damp,  salt  breeze  that  chilled  as  it  blew;  but 
Sholes  sat,  cigar  in  mouth,  puffing  and  reading 
contentedly,  regardless  of  the  weather  and  seem- 
ingly oblivious  of  either  time  or  tide. 

On  such  mornings,  customers,  as  Sholes  knew, 
were  rare  visitants  to  this  shop  in  the  narrow  bye- 
street.  There  was  nothing  to  do  then  but  to 
await  fortune's  favors  with  a  tranquil  mind.  A 
long,  pale,  bearded  face  with  a  stern,  square  fore- 
head, and  dark,  searching  eyes  were  the  chief 
features  about  a  head  that  was  set  firmly  on  a 
solid  neck.  The  figure  as  it  reclined  in  the  wooden 
arm-chair,  seemed  sparse;  the  hands  were  white 
and  of  almost  feminine  mould.  He  might  have 
been  forty  years  old,  though  a  number  of  gray  streaks 
in  the  straight,  thick  hair  of  head  and  beard,  would 
indicate  a  more  advanced  age.  The  mouth  was 
firm  but  with  a  pleasant  curve  to  the  lips  which 
were  plainly  visible  in  spite  of  the  beard.  A 
thoughtful,  sad  face,  but  with  a  spiritual  sadness. 

The  sound  of  quick  footsteps  caused  him  to  raise 
his  head  in  its  direction. 

39 


40  The  Silver  Age 

"Hello!  Randall!"  he  cried,  rising  quickly,  "I 
am  glad  to  see  you!  How  are  you?  You  haven't 
been  round  for  some  days.  What  have  you  been 
doing?" 

"Oh,  the  same  old  grind.  We've  had  a  lot  of 
extra  work  lately;  I'm  sick  of  the  damned  office. 
I  can't  stand  that  old  skinflint  of  a  money-grubber 
I'm  with  much  longer." 

The  speaker  was  a  young  man  of  a  remarkably 
handsome  face  with  curly,  brown  hair  surrounding 
his  head  and  spilling  from  under  his  hat.  The 
features  would  have  been  faultless,  but  for  a  ridicu- 
lously small  mouth  like  that  of  a  pert  and  selfish 
girl.  He  stood  gracefully,  the  youth  of  him 
seeming  to  radiate  light  through  the  fogged  gloom 
of  the  shop. 

"What's  he  been  up  to  now?" 

"Nothing  special.  It's  just  the  nature  of  the 
beast  that  gets  on  my  nerves.  But  let  him  go  to 
the  devil.  I  didn't  come  to  talk  about  him.  I 
came  to  talk  about  something  else.  Are  you 
busy?" 

"Busy,  on  a  day  like  this!  You  ought  to  know 
the  book-business  better  by  this  time  than  to  ask 
that  question.  No,  I'm  not  busy.  Sit  down  and 
tell  me  what  it  is.  Another  book  to  sell?  All 
right,  let's  look  at  it." 

"No,  Sholes,  it's  not  money  this  time,  though 
I  could  do  with  it.  I  may  ask  you  to  buy  my 
Lamb  manuscript;  it's  worth  more  than  the  ten 
quid  I  once  offered  it  to  you  for.  No — it's  not 
money."  Randall's  blanched  face  expressed  trou- 
ble in  every  feature. 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  41 

"What  is  it,  then?"  Sholes's  impassive  face  took 
on  an  almost  inquisitive  look. 

"Well — I'm — rather  in  a  fix,  and  I've  come 
round  to  see  if  you  can  help  me  out  of  it." 

"O-oh!  What  is  it?  Father  found  you  kissing 
a  servant  girl?" 

"You  are  always  joking  me  about  girls." 

For  a  moment  he  forgot  his  anxiety,  and  the 
little  mouth  smiled  its  fullness  of  vanity  with  a 
self-satisfied  curve  of  the  lips;  but  the  look  in  the 
hazel  eyes  was  a  troubled  one. 

"Well,  if  it's  not  money  and  it's  not  a  girl, 
what  is  it?" 

"It's  a — a  woman!"  His  lids  shut  down,  and 
his  long  fingers  fumbled  about  the  rim  of  his  hat. 
The  muscles  of  his  face  were  strained. 

"A — ah!"  The  exclamation  breathed  itself  out 
long-drawn  and  hard.  "Sit  down  on  this  stool, 
and  tell  me  all  about  it.  Don't  talk  too  loud — 
that  imp  of  Satan,  William,  behind  the  counter, 
has  a  donkey's  ears  on  his  red  head.  Who  is  she?" 

"No  one  you  know." 

"Married  or  unmarried?" 

"Married." 

"The  devil!"  Sholes  leaned  back  scratching  his 
bearded  chin.  "But  I'm  not  surprised.  You'd 
tempt  St.  Theresa  herself,  you  young  faun.. 
What's  she  like?  I  mean,  what  does  she  look 
like?" 

"She's  very  beautiful." 

"Hm!  I  suppose  she's  your  inspiration.  I 
might  have  known  there  was  something  behind 
those  last  sonnets  you  brought  me.  How  long 
have  you  known  her?" 


42  The  Silver  Age 

"I  met  her  first  about  a  year  ago." 

"A— ah!" 

"We've    been — very — intimate." 

"O— oh !" 

"And  the  husband  suspects  something.  He's 
told  her  he  doesn't  want  me  to  come  to  the  house 
any  more." 

"I  don't  blame  him.  Why  not  take  him  at  his 
word  and  keep  away?" 

"I  can't — and  she — won't  let  me." 

"Whew!  Then  you  are  not  anxious  to  keep  it 
up?" 

The  young  fellow  hung  his  head  as  if  in  shame. 
He  shifted  his  feet  and  fumbled  with  the  pockets 
of  his  waistcoat.  Then,  looking  up  with  a  furtive, 
sly  glance  as  of  a  child  afraid  of  a  scolding  and 
yet  anxious  to  know  how  severe  it  would  be,  he 
saw  that  Sholes's  face  had  suddenly  become  hard 
and  cold.  Quickly,  he  changed  his  expression,  and 
in  a  pleading  voice,  said: 

"I'm  in  an  awfully  uncomfortable  position, 
Sholes.  I  am,  indeed.  And  I  am  very  fond  of 
her."  Sholes  turned  his  head  away  to  hide  the 
sneer  he  was  unable  to  repress.  "I  am  indeed," 
the  young  man  reiterated.  "I  would  do  anything 
to  make  her  happy.  Only  he's  such  a  commonplace 
Philistine  of  a  fellow  that  he  doesn't  understand. 
He  might  be  very  nasty." 

"Hasn't  he  a  right  to  be  nasty?  You  seem  to 
think  that  every  woman  you  are  'really  very  fond 
of,'  as  you  obligingly  put  it,  ought  to  be  highly 
complimented  by  your  attentions;  and  that  you  are 
doing  her  husband  a  favor!  Don't  you  realize 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  43 

what  you  are  doing?  Don't  you  understand  that 
you  are  transgressing  the  one  sacred  law  of  our 
social  existence?  You  say,  you'd  do  anything  to 
make  her  happy.  What  right  have  you  to  say 
that?" 

"By  the  right  of  love." 

"Love!  And  you  talked  just  now  of  being  very 
fond  of  her!  Damn  it,  man,  you  make  me  very 
impatient  with  you." 

"You  are  not  fair  to  me,  Sholes.  I'm  pre- 
pared to  stand  by  what  IVe  done.  Fm  ready  to 
marry  her." 

"Pshaw!" 

"Now,  don't  be  impatient;  let  me  say  what  I 
want  to  say.  I'm  ready  to  do  anything;  but  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  for  the  best.  I  came  for 
your  advice.  I  thought  you  would,  out  of  friend- 
ship, tell  me  the  wisest  course  to  take." 

"My  dear  boy,  it's  impossible  for  an  outsider 
like  me  to  tell  you  what  you  ought  to  do.  I 
don't  know  all  the  conditions,  nor  all  the  facts.  I 
don't  know  him  and  I  don't  know  her.  You  must 
find  your  own  way  out  of  this  wretched  imbroglio. 
The  trouble  is,  that  you  yourself  complicate  the 
situation." 

"I!     How?" 

"Yes,  you,  by  your  vanity." 

Randall's  face  turned  a  vivid  scarlet.  He  looked 
up  indignant  and  confused.  He  was  about  to  ut- 
ter a  remonstrance,  when  Sholes  put  up  his  hand. 

"I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,  but  I'm 
right  just  the  same.  This  is  your  first  experience 
of  a  serious  nature,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,  and  you 


44  The  Silver  Age 

are  frightened  at  the  thought  of  the  consequences. 
At  the  same  time  you  are  thinking  what  a  hell  of 
a  fine  fellow  you  are.  I  can  see  it  in  your  face. 
You  are  thinking  yourself  the  hero  of  a  real  ro- 
mance. Well,  I'm  not  going  to  feed  your  vanity,  if 
that's  what  you've  come  for.  It  would  do  you  good 
if  the  man  gave  you  a  sound  drubbing  and  whipped 
the  offending  Adam  out  of  you.  But  I  don't 
suppose  it  will  come  to  that.  The  man  only  sus- 
pects and  does  not  know,  since  he  has  asked  his 
wife  to  forbid  you  the  house.  The  best  advice 
I  can  give  you  is  to  go  away  and  forget  her,  if 
your  vanity  will  let  you.  The  woman  will,  I've 
no  doubt,  get  over  the  affair." 

"You  are  very  unjust  to  me,  Sholes."  The 
bookseller  smiled  enigmatically.  Randall  caught 
the  smile.  "Yes,  Sholes,  you  are.  I've  given  her 
the  best  there  was  in  me  to  give." 

"Pish!  Don't  talk  that  rubbish  to  me.  You've 
given  her  only  what  you  liked  to  give  her,  and 
what  any  man  likes  to  give  is  rarely  his  best. 
YouVe  just  been  having  a  good  time.  It  may  be  a 
more  serious  matter  with  her.  In  that  case  she'll 
find  you  out,  now  that  a  separation  is  imminent. 
If  she  won't  let  you  go,  it's  because  she  wants  to 
be  assured  of  her  faith  in  you.  And  you  can't 
satisfy  her  because  you've  got  all  you  wanted. 
She  may  fear  that,  too,  because  she's  given  you 
everything.  You've  given  her  nothing,  except 
kisses  and  the  poems  she  gave  you  the  soul  to 


write." 


Randall    looked    at    the    bookseller    in    astonish- 
ment.    The  man  had  read  him  like  an  open  book, 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  45 

and  had  painted  a  faithful  impressionistic  picture 
of  the  very  scene  he  had  last  had  with  her.  How 
could  he  know  it? 

UI  cannot  deny,"  he  said  to  the  bookseller, 
"what  you  say.  You  humble  me;  but  I'm  not  as 
bad  as  you  make  me  out  to  be.  I  could  not  have 
been  to  her  what  I  have  been,  if  I'd  been  as 
mean  as  you  say  I  am.  And  you  can't  know  what 
I've  been  to  her." 

"Randall,  I'm  much  older  than  you  are,  which 
means  that  I,  too,  have  lived  a  life.  I  don't  want 
to  talk  to  you  about  myself — that  would  be  a 
waste  of  time.  You  say  that  you  are  not  as  bad 
as  I  make  you  out  to  be.  My  dear,  boy  we're  all 
worse  than  others  make  us  out  to  be — and — a  little 
better.  Just  now  your  worse  side  is  showing  itself. 
You  are  young  and  good  looking,  and  you  cannot 
resist  the  temptation  to  give  free  play  to  yourself. 
You  are  a  power — youth  and  beauty  are  nature's 
most  powerful  forces — and  you  have  in  addition 
the  gift  of  song.  You  are  an  artist,  which  means 
that  you  are  always  ready  to  use  anything  and 
anybody.  Do  you  know  of  any  compound  more 
dangerous  to  the  peace  of  our  middle-class  society 
than  this  of  yours?  I  don't." 

Sholes  saw  Randall's  face  overspreading  with  an 
almost  beatific  expression  of  self-complacency.  He 
took  no  notice,  seemingly,  and  went  on: 

"You  are  just  the  very  fellow  to  flutter  the 
dovecote  of  a  half-cultured  Suburbia.  Ah!  I 
thought  I'd  make  you  squirm.  You'd  be  a  great 
success  among  the  women  of  New  York,  if  what 
I  know  of  that  place  is  true.  Just  now  you  are 


46  The  Silver  Age 

piping  your  woodnotes  wild  in  a  very  devil  of 
mischief-making  spirit.  I  suppose  you  really  can't 
help  doing  it,  and  you  must  go  on  to  the  sweet  or 
bitter  end.  Let's  hope  it  won't  be  very  bitter.  It 
won't  be  to  you;  but  it  may  be  to  those  who  are 
snared  by  your  pretty  face  and  your  siren's  voice." 

"Why  should  the  end  not  be  sweet?  Isn't  love 
the  only  thing  in  life  worth  living  for?" 

"Love !  Ah,  my  boy,  what  do  you  know  of  love 
yet?  You  are  only  feeling  the  prickings  of  the 
little  god.  Read  your  sonnets  ten  years  hence 
and  then  you'll  realize  how  little  you  knew  of 
love.  You're  not  interested  in  cultivating  an 
orchard,  you're  too  busy  eating  the  ripe  fruits  of 
other  people's  orchards.  I  don't  say  you  are 
utterly  depraved  in  doing  this.  Nature  wastes  a 
great  deal  in  the  spring  time  to  produce  her 
autumnal  harvests.  But  some  one  must  pay  the 
price  for  a  dissipation  of  energy.  If  you  don't, 
and  I  don't  think  you  will,  then  your  married 
woman  must.  Whatever  you've  been  to  her  it 
must  end  in  unhappiness.  No  one  can  come  be- 
tween a  husband  and  wife  with  impunity.  But  she 
has  had  her  joy,  and  that  may  help  her  to  bear 
her  agony.  Unfortunately  a  woman  suffers  more 
under  our  social  laws  than  a  man.  When  she 
transgresses  she  is  made  to  bear  the  man's  as  well 
as  her  own  burden  of  punishment.  Forget  your- 
self, and  think  of  her.  Leave  her  to  her  husband. 
She'll  suffer;  but  such  suffering  is  as  nothing  in 
comparison  with  what  she  will  be  compelled  to 
endure  if  you  remain." 

"And  yet  you  tell  me  I  am  selfish!     Would  I 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  47 

not  be  utterly  selfish  to  go  away  and  leave  her  to 
suffer  alone?" 

Sholes  smiled  whimsically. 

"She'll  suffer  more  with  you  now.  The  fire  in 
you  for  her  is  gone  out.  Your  fear  tells  me  that. 
It  is  quenched  utterly.  You  don't  deceive  me, 
and  you  won't  deceive  her.  She'll  see  soon  enough 
that  she  is  sitting  at  a  cold  hearth.  No,  there's 
nothing  for  it  but  to  leave  her.  It's  a  miserable 
business,  at  best;  but  it  will  be  better  for  her  and 
— better  for  you." 

"How  better  for  me?" 

"You  see,  you  think  of  yourself,  first.  I  hope 
it  will  be  better  for  you.  I  hope  that  the  separa- 
tion may  hurt  you  enough  to  make  you  suffer.  The 
more  you  suffer,  the  more  the  artist  in  you  will 
use  that  experience  for  creative  work,  and  you  may 
then  perhaps,  accomplish  something  worthy.  That's 
nature's  way.  As  for  her,  well — she  must  bear  it 
as  best  she  can;  but  if  she's  the  woman  you  think 
she  is,  the  suffering  will  make  a  better  woman  of 
her.  I  can  say  no  more." 

"Is  there  no  other  way?" 

"There's  always  another  way;  but  I'm  showing 
you  the  best  way." 

"He  has  written  me  a  letter." 

"Who?— her  husband?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  didn't  you  speak  of  it  before?" 

"I  intended  you  to  see  it.  It  was  the  letter 
that  made  me  come  to  you  this  morning.  Here 
it  is,  read  it." 


48  The  Silver  Age 

Sholes  slowly  unfolded  the  paper  and  read  the 
signature  first.  He  looked  up  surprised. 

"John  Whately!  He's  a  customer  of  mine." 
Randall  made  no  reply.  The  bookseller  read  the 
letter  through  slowly  and  with  great  care.  When 
he  had  finished  it,  he  turned  to  Randall  and  said 
quickly : 

"A  fine  letter,  written  by  a  gentleman.  The 
writer  of  that  letter  is  no  fool,  and  knows  more 
than  you  give  him  credit  for.  Have  you  answered 
it?" 

"No,  I  didn't  know  what  to  say.  It  took  the 
wind  out  of  my  sails.  It  made  me  feel  so  small." 

"Fm  glad  of  that.  It's  a  letter  not  easy  to 
answer.  You  must  let  me  think  it  over  until  to- 
night. Come  back  after  closing  hours  and  we'll 
talk  it  over.  You  might  bring  that  Lamb  manu- 
script with  you.  I'd  like  to  look  at  it  again.  In 
the  meantime,  I'll  keep  the  letter,  if  you'll  allow 
me,  until  then." 

"Certainly;  I'll  be  here  at  six." 

"Good.  I'm  going  out  to  my  lunch  now. 
William!  William!  where  is  that  imp  of  Satan? 
Oh,  here  you  are!  William,  I'll  be  back  in  an 
hour  or  so.  Keep  a  sharp  eye  on  the  shop,  do 
you  hear?" 

"Yes,   sir." 

"And  watch  any  parson  that  may  come  in — 
particularly  if  he  wears  a  big  overcoat." 

"Yes,  sir";  the  boy's  voice  was  like  a  distant 
fog-horn  in  sound. 

Sholes  lifted  the  top  of  the  desk  and  dropped 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  49 

the  letter  inside  it.  The  boy  stood  eyeing  him 
with  a  grin  on  his  heavy,  freckled  face. 

Randall  and  the  bookseller  had  no  sooner 
passed  out  than  the  boy  ducked  his  red  head  be- 
neath the  desk.  In  a  moment  he  had  emerged 
with  a  large  orange  and  an  apple  in  his  hands. 
Then  curling  himself  up  in  the  chair,  he  took  a 
book  from  under  his  jacket  and,  munching  an 
apple,  was  absorbed  in  reading. 

A  loud  scratching  beneath  the  desk  caused  him 
to  turn  his  head.  His  eye  caught  sight  of  a 
couple  of  mice  nibbling  at  some  apple  pips  near  the 
fender.  Raising  his  book  he  took  slow  aim  and 
shot  it  at  them.  A  crash,  a  scutter,  and  the  boy 
was  on  the  floor  after  his  book  which  now  lay 
shorn  of  one  of  its  covers.  Rising  with  the  book 
in  his  hand  he  struck  his  head  a  smart  bump 
against  the  desk.  With  an  ugly  scowl,  he  stood 
looking  at  the  offending  piece  of  furniture,  rub- 
bing his  sore  scalp.  "Golly,  that  was  a  nasty 
one,"  he  muttered,  giving  the  desk  a  kick.  Sud- 
denly he  stopped  rubbing. 

"Golly,  I  wonder  what's  in  that  letter."  Sholes's 
act  came  back  to  his  memory. 

Opening  the  flap,  he  ducked  his  head  in  and 
emerged  with  the  letter  in  his  hand.  He  wasted 
no  time  in  unfolding  it.  His  eye  caught  the  signa- 
ure,  and  he  stared  at  it,  open-mouthed. 

"Oh,  crikey,  if  it  ain't  from  old  Cocky  Four 
Eyes;  my  old  master.  And  it's  to  Mr.  Randall!" 
He  placed  his  book  on  the  desk  and,  leaning 
against  the  mantelpiece  set  himself  to  decipher  the 
somewhat  old-fashioned  script. 


50  The  Silver  Age 

"Is  Mr.  Sholes  in?"  A  voice,  bell-like  in  qual- 
ity, pierced  the  misty  air  and  the  boy  jumped  back 
as  if  struck.  He  looked  up  with  open  mouth  and 
fearful  face  and  saw  a  beautiful  lady  smiling  gra- 
ciously near  him.  In  the  fright  which  had  seized 
him  he  had  dropped  the  letter. 

uls  Mr.  Sholes  in?"  the  musical  voice  repeated. 

uNo,  ma'am.'*  The  boy  had  managed  to  find 
his  breath. 

"Will  he  be  long  away?" 

"No,  ma'am  he's  gone  out  to  his  lunch."  He 
stood  staring  at  the  pretty  face  as  if  unable  or  un- 
willing to  move. 

"Then  I  will  wait.     May  I  sit  here?" 

The  boy  nodded  mechanically,  still  gazing  at 
her  and  now  with  openly  admiring  eyes.  He  saw 
what  was  to  him  a  richly  dressed  woman,  small, 
very  pretty,  with  large,  alluring  brown  eyes.  An 
older  person  would  have  been  drawn  by  the  ten- 
der and  sweet  expression  in  the  eyes  and  round  the 
child-like  full  lips.  She  smiled  at  the  boy  standing 
before  her  drinking  in  the  vision,  and  the  smile 
sent  a  delightful  quiver  through  him.  He  grinned 
back,  and  then  drew  in  his  lips  with  a  sucking 
sound.  Her  face  grew  cold  immediately  while  a 
faint  look  of  repulsion  came  into  her  eyes.  She 
turned  her  head  aside.  The  boy  still  stood  staring 
with  his  fists  clenched.  Suddenly  he  stiffened.  The 
sound  of  coming  steps  made  him  turn,  and  he  dis- 
appeared in  the  foggy  passage  to  attend  to  the 
customer. 

Left  alone,  she  shuddered  slightly,  and  allowed 
her  eyes  to  wander  round  the  fireside.  Bending 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  51 

forward  to  warm  her  gloved  hands  at  the  fire  she 
saw  the  letter  lying  near  the  fender.  She  looked  at 
it  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  muscles  in  her  face 
tightened.  She  had  recognized  her  husband's 
writing.  Stooping  she  took  the  letter  up  and  saw 
that  it  was  addressed  to  Mr.  Randall.  Without 
the  slightest  hesitation  she  read  it  through  deliber- 
ately and  carefully.  She  sat  there,  letter  in  hand, 
immovable  for  some  seconds,  then  with  a  low 
moan  fell  back  as  if  struck  by  a  blow.  When  she 
opened  her  eyes  again  she  became  aware  that 
someone  was  pushing  her  shoulders.  With  a  pain- 
ful effort  she  turned  her  head  and  saw  the  fear- 
stricken  face  of  the  red-headed  boy  near  her  in 
agony  of  suspense. 

"Oh,  ma'am  did  you  faint?"  he  rumbled  in  his 
thick  voice.  "You  did  frighten  me." 

She  smiled  wanly.  UA  little  water,  please,"  she 
whispered.  The  boy  went  but  returned  quickly 
with  a  dripping  glass.  She  took  it,  trembling,  and 
sipped  slowly.  She  remembered  now.  The  letter ! 
Where  was  it?  She  looked  beggingly  at  the  boy. 

"The    letter?"    she    breathed. 

"I've  put  it  back  in  the  desk,"  the  boy  answered. 

She  nodded  with  a  contented  little  sigh.  "Thank 
you,"  she  said  gently,  holding  out  the  glass  to  the 
boy,  "I'm  much  better."  The  boy  turned,  glass  in 
hand,  when  a  shadow  blotted  out  the  faint  day- 
light which  came  in  through  the  shop's  door.  Hur- 
riedly he  placed  the  glass  on  a  shelf. 

"Here's  Mr.  Sholes,  ma'am,"  he  whispered 
hoarsely. 

"Now  then,  William,"  Sholes's  voice  came  from 


52  The  Silver  Age 

the  distance,  "run  and  get  your  dinner,  and  be  back 
in  an  hour,  do  you  hear?" 

uYes,  sir,"  the  boy  roared  out.  Seizing  his 
book  and  stuffing  it  beneath  his  jacket,  he  van- 
ished behind  the  counter. 

Sholes  strode  up,  hat  in  hand,  and  placed  it  on 
its  accustomed  shelf.  Turning  to  the  fireplace  to 
sit  down  he  stopped  short  at  the  sight  of  the 
woman  sitting  there.  She  had  been  watching  him, 
so  that  their  eyes  met.  She  smiled. 

"Mr.   Sholes,   I  believe." 

The  bookseller  bowed  slightly  and  awkwardly. 
He  faced  her,  leaning  against  the  desk.  The  gas- 
light falling  upon  her  showed  him  the  appealing 
expression  on  the  white,  tired  face,  the  sweet  and 
plaintive  curves  of  the  sensitive  mouth,  and  the 
eyes  deer-like  in  their  timidity  of  outlook.  His 
pulse  beat  more  quickly.  He  knew  instinctively 
that  this  was  the  woman  whose  fate  he  had  been 
called  upon  by  Randall  to  decide.  A  wave  of 
pity  for  her  welled  up  in  him,  though  his  face  was 
as  impassive  as  ever. 

"Can  I  be  of  any  service  to  you?"  he  asked 
gently. 

"I  expected  to  meet  Mr.  Randall  here.  I  am 
Mrs.  Whately.  My  husband,  I  think  is  a  customer 
of  yours."  Her  voice  had  regained  its  silver 
tones,  but  they  rang  mournfully  in  his  ears,  like 
the  faint  sound  of  distant  sledge-bells. 

"I  know  your  husband  very  well.  We  have 
had  many  a  pleasant  chat  together,  here.  He  is 
a  fine  scholar." 

Her    eyes    softened    and    the    deepening   smile 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  53 

brought  charming  dimples  to  the  colorless,  satin- 
like  cheeks. 

"Mr.  Randall  was  here  this  morning.  He  left 
me  an  hour  ago,  to  go  home." 

A  shadow  emphasized  the  sad  expression  on  the 
girlish  face.  Sholes  noted  it  and  noted  also  the 
trembling  of  the  lower  lip. 

"I  am  very  anxious  to  see  him  to-day.  I  had 
an  appointment  with  him  this  morning,  but  as  he 
failed  to  keep  it,  I  began  to  be  afraid  something 

had  happened  to  him.  He  never "  She  broke 

off  suddenly,  her  face  crimsoning. 

"He  is  quite  well;  a  little  worried,  perhaps. " 

The  delicate  suede-gloved  hands  in  the  silken 
lap  of  her  dress  clasped  and  unclasped.  Sholes 
turned  and  lifted  up  the  flap  of  the  desk.  Good! 
The  letter  was  still  there.  He  closed  the  desk 
softly.  She  had  seen  his  act  and,  forgetting  that 
he  could  not  be  aware  of  her  knowledge  of  his 
possession  of  the  letter,  she  became  filled  with 
mingled  fear  and  indignation.  She  made  an  effort 
to  rise,  but,  suddenly  remembering,  she  sank 
heavily  back  overcome  by  her  emotion.  Sholes 
turned  at  the  sound  and  saw  her  distress. 

"You  are  ill,  Mrs.  Whately!  Can  I  do  any- 
thing ?" 

"I'm  rather  tired — that  is  all.  Thank  you,  no. 
But  I'm  afraid  I  am  interrupting  you  in  your 
business." 

The  remark,  though  quite  casually  made,  served 
as  a  happy  interpretation  of  his  act  of  opening  the 
desk. 

"Not  at  all." 


54  The  Silver  Age 

"Then  may  I  sit  awhile?  It  is  very  restful  here 
by  your  quaint  fireside." 

uBy  all  means.  I  am  grateful  for  company.  A 
bookseller's  days  are  often  very  dull." 

She  smiled,  and  the  smile  touched  Sholes  by  its 
sweet  pathos. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  said,  and  added,  "Yes, 
I  suppose  not  many  people  'shop'  for  books.  But 
you  must  have  frequent  visits  from  collectors  like 
my  husband  or  Mr.  Randall?" 

"Yes,  but  their  visits  are  angel's  visits."  A 
short  pause  followed  which  she  broke. 

"Mr.  Sholes,  may  I  ask  you  a  question?" 

Sholes  looked  startled  for  a  moment,  but  added: 
"Certainly." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Randall?" 

The  question  was  so  unexpected  that  it  hit  him 
like  a  blow.  He  recovered  himself,  however, 
quickly,  and  with  easy  nonchalance,  said  smiling: 

"Randall!  Oh,  he  is  a  pretty  boy — only  a 
boy.  He's  interesting  though,  very,  but — the  world 
is  a  long  way  in  front  of  him." 

"You  are  not  very  enthusiastic.  His  friends 
think  he  is  a  genius.  Have  you  read  his  poems? 
Some  people  think  they  are  as  good  as  Keats." 

"I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  that.  There's  no 
doubt  he  has  unusual  talent;  but  his  poems  show 
plainly  he  has  had  no  experience  of  life.  He's 
too  young."  The  woman  blushed  and  looked 
down. 

"He's  precocious,"  continued  Sholes,  "but  pre- 
cocity is  not  often  an  indication  of  genius.  For  one 
Keats  or  Burns  there  are  a  thousand  Macaulays, 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  55 

and  Macaulay,  remarkably  precocious  as  he  was, 
was  anything  but  a  genius." 

"But  Mr.  Randall  isn't  a  bit  like  Macaulay,  Mr. 
Sholes.  Macaulay  was  a  commonplace  English- 
man. Mr.  Randall  is  a  poet,  with  all  a  poet's 
artistic  temperament." 

Sholes  was  convinced  that  she  had  come  for  a 
purpose,  and  that  Randall  was  that  purpose.  It 
might,  however,  be  possible,  he  thought,  to  bring 
Randall  to  his  senses,  through  her.  At  any  rate, 
the  effort  was  worth  making. 

"It's  the  commonplace  Englishman,  madam, 
who  made  English  what  she  is.  Poets  are  not 
nation  makers.  As  for  their  artistic  temperament, 
we  must  be  careful  how  we  treat  it.  If  we  are  to 
take  them  at  their  word,  all  young  men  with  artis- 
tic temperaments  are  geniuses — the  woods  are  full 
of  them." 

"Are  you  not  rather  hard  on  Mr.  Randall?" 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  him  particularly.  But 
since  you  single  him  out  I  will  say  of  him  what  I 
say  of  them  all — he  must  convince  the  world  be- 
fore he  asks  it  to  accept  him  as  one  of  the  elect. 
He  must  conquer  it  by  his  work,  and  he  can  only 
do  that  by  being  left  to  live  his  life  his  own  way. 
If  he's  got  the  right  stuff  in  him,  it  will  come  out. 
It's  a  mistake — a  very  great  mistake — to  coddle 
genius — to  rate  it  too  highly  at  the  first  indication 
of  talent." 

"The  world  doesn't  err  in  that  respect.  What 
would  become  of  the  genius  if  nobody  appreciated 
him?  He'd  starve,  body  and  soul." 

"That's  true;  but  it's  better  he  should  starve — 


56  The  Silver  Age 

better  for  him,  and  better  for  the  world.  That 
is  part  of  his  training;  the  experience  ripens  him." 

"Would  you  then  condemn  him  to  suffering ?" 

"No;  but  I  would  make  sure  first  that  he  was 
worth  saving.  If  I  were  to  open  my  house  to  all 
who  write  sonnets  and  wear  long  hair,  I'd  have  to 
sleep  in  my  backyard  myself." 

She  smiled.  "How  can  you  be  sure?"  she 
asked.  "Is  it  not  better  to  help  and  encourage  than 
to  deny  and  dishearten,  even  if  one  makes  mis- 
takes?" 

"If  you  are  willing  to  take  the  consequences, 
yes;  but  the  genius  is  a  very  reckless  fellow — he 
will  break  your  heart  and  think  he  has  mended  it 
by  writing  a  lyric." 

"Do  you  include  Mr.  Randall  in  that  class?" 
she  asked  in  a  strained,  anxious  voice. 

"I  do,  for  in  addition  to  his  pretty  gift  of  verse- 
making  he  has  the  pretty  gift  of  good  looks.  That's 
a  dangerous  combination  in  a  young  man.  He  is  a 
veritable  menace  to  the  public  peace — and  the 
private  peace,  also,"  he  added  slowly. 

Sholes  watched  her  shiver  under  the  blow  of 
his  remark.  He  was  sorry  he  had  struck  so  hard, 
now  that  he  saw  how  deeply  it  affected  her.  Poor 
girl!  Evidently  Randall  had  sung  his  songs  to 
her  and  she  had  been  converted  as  well  as  flat- 
tered. No  doubt,  she  thought  herself  walking  the 
sunlit  heights  with  him — another  Laura  to  this 
English  Petrarch. 

"You  must  have  been  unfortunate  in  those  you 
met,  to  speak  as  you  do."  She  spoke  with  a  gen- 
tle sadness  of  tone. 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  57 

"I  have  not  met  many;  but  I  do  know  that  the 
artistic  temperament,  as  we  call  it,  is  too  often  but 
a  fine  cloak  in  which  to  hide  a  very  ragged  spirit. 
At  best  it's  a  vagrant  spirit.  It  is  a  wind  that 
bloweth  where  it  listeth.  I  have  found  that  it 
thrives  best  under  discipline.  He's  a  poor  friend 
to  genius  that  would  force  it  with  the  heat  of 
flattery  and  adulation." 

4 'But,  surely,  Mr.  Sholes,  you  don't  think  Mr. 
Randall  is  of  the  class  of  ragged  spirits,  as  you 
call  them?" 

"No,  I  don't;  but  he  has  their  temperament, 
and  the  temperament  is  an  anti-social  one.  It's 
selfish  and  reckless  of  what  it  does  so  long  as  it 
gains  its  own  ends.  Besides,  we  make  a  mistake 
when  we  think  we  are  helping  it  by  sympathy.  I 
have  known  much  unhappiness  follow  from  that 
course,  and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  it  is 
really  our  duty  to  be  hard  with  such  men." 

"Then  you  think  that  sympathy  and  apprecia- 
tion would  harm  Mr.  Randall?" 

"I  do.  I  believe  in  him;  but  just  because  of 
that  I  must  be  very  critical  of  what  he  does.  I 
should  not  be  his  friend,  otherwise."  She  nodded 
understandingly. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  so  high  an  opinion  of  him. 
It  must  be  a  great  help  to  have  you  for  a  friend." 

Sholes  smiled.  He  was  satisfied  he  had  gained 
an  advantage.  "I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "he  some- 
times finds  me  trying." 

"Oh,  but  I  know  he  values  your  friendship 
very  highly.  He  has  often  spoken  to  me  of  you 
and  of  your  goodness  to  him." 


58  The  Silver  Age 

"Well,  I'm  rather  interested  in  seeing  him 
develop." 

"I  am  interested  in  him,  too,  Mr.  Sholes.  In- 
deed, it  was  partly  on  that  account  that  I  took  the 
liberty  of  coming  here.  I  hope  you  won't  misun- 
derstand me." 

Her  face  had  taken  on  a  charming,  petitioning 
look.  He  melted  before  its  sweet  pleading. 

"I  am  glad  to  learn  that.  Your  interest  in  him 
cannot  be  otherwise  than  helpful.  But  you  will 
have  to  step  carefully.  A  woman's  interest  in  a 
young  man's  future  is  apt  to  enervate  him/ 
Pardon  me,  for  speaking  so  plainly." 

Her  face  was  a  blown  pink  rose.  She  looked 
down  at  her  hands  and  saw  their  fingers  twisting  help- 
lessly. Realizing  that  she  was  betraying  herself  she 
summoned  all  her  strength  and,  clasping  her  fingers 
tightly,  she  looked  up  smilingly  and  said,  as  steadily 
as  she  could : 

"You  are  quite  right.  It  is  difficult  to  know 
what  is  best  to  do.  You  are  very  wise,  Mr. 
Sholes,  and  very  kind.  I — I  wish  we  had  met 
earlier."  She  paused  out  of  lack  of  breath  from 
the  stress  of  emotion.  Then  recovering  herself 
quickly,  she  added,  "I  might  have  been  of  greater 
help  to  him  than  I  have  been.  It  is  not  easy,  as 
you  know,  to  judge,  where  one's  sympathies  are 
engaged." 

Sholes  saw  the  pure  soul  of  the  sorrow-laden 
woman  in  her  eyes.  The  sight  so  affected  him 
that  he  dug  his  finger-nails  into  the  wooden  desk. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Whately,"  his  voice  was  en- 
riched with  his  emotion,  "it  is  always  difficult  to 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  59 

be  wise  where  one's  affections  are  engaged."  She 
noted  the  new  word.  "That  is  my  difficulty  with 
Randall.  I  want  him  to  succeed,  because  I  feel 
sure  he  will  do  big  things,  and  the  world  has  need 
of  men  who  can  do  big  things.  But  the  man  des- 
tined to  greatness,  must  fight  his  fight  alone." 

"You  think,  then,  he  should  go  out  into  the 
world,  and  take  his  chance." 

"Exactly.  Indeed,  that  is  what  I  have  been 
urging  him  to  do  this  very  morning,  but  he  is 
unwilling  to  take  the  leap." 

Her  gentle  eyes  glowed  as  from  an  inward  fire. 
Sholes  saw  the  glow  and  it  sent  a  hope  springing 
in  his  breast.  Surely  that  glow  was  the  dawn  of 
Randall's  day  of  freedom.  He  waited  anxiously 
for  her  answer.  When  it  came  it  confirmed  him. 

"I  will  add  my  persuasions  to  your  urgings,  Mr. 
Sholes,  it  may  be  that  two  can  do  where  one 
failed." 

"If  you  do,  then  I  shall  have  no  doubt  at  all  of 
his  future." 

She  rose  slowly,  and  extending  her  hand,  said: 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  allow  me  to  take 
up  so  much  of  your  time.  I  am  very  grateful  to 
you.  Won't  you  call  on  us  some  evening?  My 
husband,  I  am  sure,  will  be  pleased." 

"Thank  you;  I  may  take  you  at  your  word." 

"Do.     Good-afternoon." 

"Good-afternoon."  He  held  her  hand  a  brief 
second.  "I  shall  be  honored  whenever  you  call 
again." 

She  smiled  wearily,  and  turning  away  her  pa- 
thetically sad  eyes,  stepped  slowly  out. 


60  The  Silver  Age 

A  murky  blackness  had  taken  the  place  of  the 
brief,  misty  daylight.  Sholes  lit  a  couple  of  gas 
jets  and  peered  behind  the  counter  for  the  boy. 
"William,"  he  called,  "damn  that  red-headed 
Caliban!  I  suppose  he  won't  be  back  now.  Gone 
down  to  the  docks,  as  usual.  Well,  I'm  glad  he 
didn't  come  back."  Returning  to  the  fireside  he 
opened  the  desk,  took  out  the  letter  and  read  it 
once  more. 

"An  unusual  letter,  but  a  fine  spirit  all  through 
it,"  he  muttered  as  he  placed  it  in  his  coat  pocket. 
He  stood  with  foot  on  fender  and  head  bent  star- 
ing at  the  fire,  absorbed  in  reflections  over  the 
day's  strange  happenings.  Poor  woman,  poor 
woman !  There  was  not  a  doubt  of  him  in  her 
mind.  Sholes  continued  to  stare  at  the  fire  utterly 
unconscious  of  either  time  or  place.  Memory  had 
come  back  to  him.  He  saw  himself  a  young 
man  again,  walking  the  hedge-lined  lanes  with  a 
woman.  The  old,  old  story.  He  had  somehow  lived 
through  his  own  agonies.  What  puppets  young 
men  are  in  the  grip  of  this  passion  of  love !  What 
fools  we  are  to  think  we  can  harness  the  mightiest 
of  nature's  forces  in  the  ribbons  of  ordinary  con- 
vention and  drive  the  car  of  life  with  them!  He 
shivered.  Yes,  he  must  make  Randall  clear  out. 
He  must  not  remain  to  ruin  that  great-hearted 
woman's  life,  and  ruin  his  own,  too.  He  would 
press  him  to  the  last  stand.  With  a  sigh  he 
raised  his  head  and  passed  his  hands  through  the 
thick  hair.  The  sound  of  footsteps  caused  him  to 
turn  towards  the  entrance  to  the  shop;  he  stood 
waiting. 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  61 

"Here  I  am  Sholes — prompt  to  the  minute." 

Sholes  looked  at  Randall  as  though  he  didn't 
see  him.  A  momentary  feeling  of  revulsion  had 
seized  him  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  small,  selfish 
smiling  mouth;  but  he  quickly  repressed  it.  With 
a  heavy  step  forward  he  greeted  the  young  man. 

"I'm  very  glad  you've  come,"  he  said,  his  bari- 
tone voice  deepened  to  its  lower  tones,  uput  some 
coals  on  the  fire  while  I  turn  out  the  lights  and 
lock  up." 

A  few  minutes  later,  Randall  and  the  book- 
seller sat  facing  each  other  at  the  fireside.  The 
single  gas  jet  above  the  mantelpiece  flared  darkly 
yellow  in  the  thick  misty  atmosphere  of  the  foggy 
evening  in  which  the  forms  of  the  two  men  were 
enfolded.  Sholes  lit  a  cigar  and  puffed  at  it  slowly. 

"Did  you  bring  the  Lamb  manuscript?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  here  it  is." 

"Good."  He  examined  it  carefully,  fingering 
each  leaf.  "I'll  give  you  the  ten  pounds  for  it, 
though  it's  more  than  I  can  afford  to  tie  up  just 
now,  if  you'll  do  what  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  do." 

"What's  that?"  inquired  Randall  curiously. 

"Pack  up  your  traps,  and  go  up  to  London 
to-night." 

"London!  To-night!  Good  God,  man,  I  can't 
do  that.  I  can't  leave  the  office  at  a  moment's  notice 
without  an  explanation." 

"Write  the  explanation — say  anything  you  like, 
you've  threatened  to  leave  before.  I've  thought 
over  your  situation  and  the  only  way  out  of  it  I 
can  see  is  to  do  what  I  advise." 

"I — I — can't   leave   her   that  way." 


62  The  Silver  Age 

"It's  the  only  way  you  will  leave  her.  You  go 
to  London  to-night  and  start  your  life  again  or,  I 
wash  my  hands  of  the  matter,  and  decline  to  buy 
the  manuscript.  You've  read  his  letter.  Here  it 
is.  Read  it  again.  That  man  practically  begs 
your  clemency.  Can  you  refuse  him?" 

Randall  smirked  as  he  shifted  uneasily.  The 
vanity  in  the  man  was  irrepressible.  With  a 
graceful  side-turn  of  his  head  which  would  have 
been  repulsive  had  it  not  been  so  evidently  natural, 
he  looked  at  Sholes  shyly  and  said: 

"My  clemency,  as  you  call  it  would  not  help 
him.  She  is  not  the  woman  he  thinks  she  is.  She 
can't  live  his  life;  she  has  a  life  of  her  own  to 
live  now." 

"Then  let  her  live  it.  Do  you  want  to  show  her 
how  to  live  it?  Are  you  prepared  for  the  conse- 
quences?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  can't  say.  I'm  very  much 
attached  to  her." 

"Attached  be  hanged!  Do  you  love  her  so  that 
your  life  is  a  blank  without  her?  No,  of  course, 
you  don't.  It's  your  damnable  vanity  that  won't 
let  you  give  her  up.  I  wish  to  God  you  did  love 
her;  there  might  be  some  hope  for  you  then." 

Sholes's  face  was  marble  in  its  white  sternness. 
The  sentimental  frills  fell  away  from  Randall  like 
blown  thistledown.  He  sat  straight  up,  looking 
like  a  bleak  stalk. 

"You  are  unjust  to  me,  Sholes.  I  don't  deserve 
all  you  say.  I  want  to  do  what  will  give  her  least 
unhappiness.  I  would  do  anything  to  help  her. 
And  yet — there  is  my  own  future  also." 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  63 

"What  I  advise  is  best  for  her  and  best  for 
your  own  future." 

"She  will  break  her  heart,  if  I  leave  her." 

"So  you  think;  but  she's  more  likely  to  break 
her  husband's  heart,  if  I  read  that  letter  aright. 
And  she'll  break  you  without  intending  to  do  it." 

Randall  shook  his  head  with  a  sad  smile.  "You 
don't  know  her,"  he  said;  "she  has  a  beautiful  nature 
and  would  sacrifice  her  life  for  me." 

"I  see  I  must  be  frank  with  you.  Do  you  care 
to  listen?" 

Randall  nodded  a  timid  and  anxious  assent. 
The  bookseller  threw  the  stump  of  his  cigar  into 
the  fender,  and  settled  himself  back  firmly  in  his 
chair. 

"I  am  of  the  firm  opinion  that  you  are  cut  out 
for  the  career  of  letters.  There's  the  making  of 
a  writer  in  you.  You  have  imagination  and  fancy 
and  the  art  of  expression.  You  have  style  also. 
It  would  be  a  pity  were  you  to  squander  your  gifts. 
But  what  are  you  doing  with  them,  cooped  up  in 
this  stupid  provincial  town?  And  what  are 
you  doing  with  yourself  tied  to  a  woman's 
apron-strings — and  to  a  married  woman's?  Can't 
you  see  that  you  are  frittering  away  the  best 
time  of  your  life?  Get  away  from  this  town  and 
this  woman.  London's  your  field.  This  town 
won't  miss  you,  and  the  woman  will  not  long  re- 
member you.  Oh,  don't  smile;  she'll  get  over 
you.  And  when  she  does,  she'll  be  the  better  for 
having  known  you,  if  she  is  the  woman  you  say 
she  is.  If  she's  not  you'd  drag  her  down  to  hell, 
if  you  stay.  This  letter  of  her  husband's  leaves 


64  The  Silver  Age 

you  no  alternative  except  to  take  her  or  to  leave 
her.  If  you  take  her,  you  must  support  her — and 
you  can't  support  yourself.  What  your  lives  to- 
gether will  then  be  I  leave  you  to  imagine.  If  you 
leave  her,  you  will  at  least  do  the  one  decent  thing 
kft  to  you  to  do  for  her  husband;  and  as  for  her, 
well,  she  will  suffer,  but  she  will  grow  through  the 
suffering  to  be  a  nobler  woman  and,  perhaps  a 
truer  wife.  As  for  you,  yourself,  youVe  had  the 
experience,  and  it  may  or  may  not  make  a  man 
of  you.  I  hope  it  will.  Nay,  I  am  sure  it  will. 
You  have  the  poet's  soul  in  you,  and  the  trial  may 
deepen  your  nature  so  that  it  may  take  upon  itself 
the  mystery  of  things,  as  Shakespeare  so  wonder- 
fully expressed  it."  Sholes  paused  and  look  stead- 
ily at  Randall.  "Am  I  to  buy  the  manuscript  on 
my  terms?"  he  asked,  faintly  smiling,  "or  is  it  to 
be  the  Divorce  Court?"  The  last  words  he  shot  at 
him  with  forward-bending  head. 

Randall  was  overcome.  He  put  his  hands  up 
before  his  face  and  sat  bent,  the  very  picture  of 
misery. 

"Come,  come  my  lad,"  and  Sholes  leaned  over 
to  pat  his  shoulder,  "take  the  ten  pounds.  It'll  be 
the  saving  of  your  life." 

Randall  raised  a  tired,  drawn,  white  face.  Sholes 
saw  the  mouth  tremble,  and  felt  a  father's  pity  for 
the  boy  as  he  held  the  bank-notes  toward  him. 

The  young  man  put  them  aside  with  a  despair- 
ing gesture. 

"I  can't.  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  Give 
me  a  week  to  decide.  There's  so  much  to  do 
before  I  could  go,  in  any  case." 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  65 

"No — it  must  be  now  or  never.  There's  noth- 
ing to  do  that  you  can't  do  better  after  you  get  to 
London.  I'm  pressing  you,  I  know;  but  I've  been 
through  this  mill  myself.  I  lost  my  chance  through 
just  such  waiting  in  a  false  hope." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  in  so  broken  and 
sad  a  voice  that  Randall  even  was  moved  to  for- 
get himself.  He  looked  at  the  bookseller's  face 
and  thought  he  saw  a  rift  opening  darkly  in  its 
mask;  but  the  rift  must  have  been  a  seeming  for 
the  next  moment  the  face  appeared  calm  and  pas- 
sionless as  ever.  It  was  not  Sholes's  face,  but  the 
magical  tones  of  his  voice  that  had  stirred  Ran- 
dall's heart-strings  and  sent  them  vibrating  to  a 
new  music.  Sholes  saw  that  he  had  gained  a  decided 
advantage.  He  determined  to  make  his  final  attack. 

"She  was  here  this  afternon,"  he  remarked, 
quietly. 

"Here!"  Randall  jumped  up  from  his  seat  with 
the  exclamation.  "What  did  she  want?  Oh,  I 
know,  she  came  to  see  if  I  were  here."  Then  he 
remembered  that  Sholes  had  never  met  her  before. 
"But  how  did  you  know  it  was  she?"  he  asked, 
suddenly 

"Did  you  not  give  me  her  husband's  letter?  She 
introduced  herself  by  name.  She  expected  to  meet 
you  here,  she  said." 

"Yes,  but  I  could  not  see  her  until  I  had  settled 
about  that  letter.  Did  you  have  any  talk  with 
her?  Isn't  she  beautiful?" 

"Yes,  she  is  very  charming.  We  chatted  to- 
gether for  quite  some  time.  You  see,  I  was  inter- 
ested in  meeting  her." 


66  The  Silver  Age 

"What  do  you  think  of  her?  I've  often  wished 
you  could  meet  her." 

"She's  very  pretty  and  engaging;  but  nothing 
unusual — nothing  to  rave  about." 

Sholes  grit  his  teeth  as  he  spoke  the  denying 
words,  and  offered  a  prayer  of  pardon  to  her  in 
his  heart. 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  her.  She  has  a  fine  mind, 
and  a  beautiful  nature.  And  she's  an  excellent 
judge  of  poetry." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  of  your  poetry.  I'm  not 
surprised.  She  has  had  the  advantage  of  your 
private  tuition.  Now  don't  fly  off  at  a  tangent.  I 
must  have  my  joke.  But,  seriously,  she's  a  sick 
woman.  She'll  welcome  a  respite  from  your  heated 
attentions.  You've  put  on  her  more  than  she  can 
bear,  and  the  strain  is  breaking  her." 

"What  do   you   mean?" 

"I  mean  that  you  have  taken  her  out  of  her 
element.  You've  made  her  climb  with  you  to  an 
atmosphere  that  is  painful  for  her  to  breathe.  She's 
tired — tired  of  poetry,  tired  of  living  with  you  on 
the  heights,  tired  of  everything,  of  you,  even." 

"How  do  you  know  that?    Did  she  say  so?" 

Sholes  smiled. 

"She  didn't  have  to  say  it.  It  was  written  all 
over  her  face.  For  God's  sake,  man,  leave  her 
alone,  if  you  want  her  to  live  at  all.  She's  not  of 
your  class.  Thank  Heaven,  there  are  some  women 
left  in  the  world  who  do  not  belong  to  it.  Yes, 
I  mean  what  I  say,  and  I  say  it  without  intending 
to  hurt  your  feelings.  The  women  of  your  class 
must  be  barren.  This  woman  is  made  for  mother- 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  67 

hood  and  the  suckling  of  children.  She  belongs 
to  a  home,  not  a  conservatory.  She's  one  of  the 
builders  of  peoples,  not  a  pretty  grisette  to  tie  a 
poet's  silken  scarf.  You've  made  her  eat  your 
apples  of  Hesperides,  and  they  are  Dead  Sea  fruit 
to  her.  Be  content  to  let  her  dream  of  you.  Her 
dreams  will  do  her  more  good  than  your  reality. 
Go  to-night,  and  she  will  forget  you  in  a  week, 
unless — "  and  the  words  fell  from  Sholes's  lips 
unpremeditatedly — "unless  the  child  she  is  carry- 
ing within  her  is  yours." 

Randall  fell  heavily  into  the  chair  and  bent 
double.  His  act  struck  Sholes  like  an  earthquake. 
He  had  spoken  at  random,  though  he  had  diag- 
nosed the  woman's  illness.  The  ground  seemed 
to  open  suddenly  beneath  his  feet.  The  shock  split, 
for  Sholes,  the  rock  of  the  young  man's  stubborn- 
ness and,  as  he  stared  at  the  bowed  form,  he 
seemed  to  see  the  waters  of  his  life  gushing  forth 
and  drowning  him.  It  was  this,  then,  that  had 
held  him  back!  The  subterranean  lake  lay  re- 
vealed now.  He  could  see  clearly  all  around  it. 
He  even  heard  the  sucking  sounds  of  the  black, 
viscous  waves  at  they  lap-lap-lapped  the  slimy 
shores.  Oh  the  pity  of  it;  the  pity  of  it! 

For  many  minutes  Sholes  sat  and  stared,  think- 
ing, thinking.  Finally,  he  shook  himself  out  of 
his  stupor  and,  placing  his  hand  on  Randall's 
shoulder,  said  in  a  quiet,  sad  voice: 

'"You   should   have   told  me   this  before." 

"I  was  afraid  to  at  first,"  came  up  brokenly, 
"but  I  intended  you  should  know  before  we  parted 
to-night." 


68  The  Silver  Age 

"I  wish  I  had  known  it  when  she  was  here 
to-day.  You  must  be  up  and  away  to-night — 
now,  more  than  ever.  Do  you  hear  are?  To- 
night." 

"And  you  still  urge  me  to  go?"  The  words 
reached  him  muffled. 

"Yes!  It's  your  life  against  hers.  She  has  lived 
hers — yours  is  yet  to  be  lived.  Take  it  in  your 
own  hands  like  a  man,  or  both  your  lives  will  be 
blasted.  You  can't  help  her  by  remaining.  Nay, 
you'll  make  it  harder  for  her  to  bear.  Rouse 
yourself,  man!" 

"I'll  feel  like  a  cur,  Sholes,  like  a  dirty  dog." 

"It'll  do  you  good  to  feel  it;  but  a  living 
cur  is  worth  a  hundred  dead  lions.  If  you've  the 
stuff  of  a  man  in  you  at  all,  the  waters  of  this 
misery  will  wash  the  cur  in  you  clean.  Don't,  for 
her  sake,  sentimentalize  the  situation.  Grit  your 
teeth — be  hard — and  do  the  seeming  coward's  act. 
She'll  thank  you  for  it,  later,  and  when  you've  suc- 
ceeded she'll  be  the  first  to  rejoice  in  your  success. 
Write  her  from  London  a  short  letter,  but  don't 
pity  her  whatever  you  do,  or  you'll  both  dissolve  in 
ineffectual  tears.  Leave  her  to  fight  her  own  life. 
The  child  will  help  her  more  than  you  ever  could. 
It  may  be  her  salvation." 

"God!  God!    What  have  I  done?" 

"What's  the  use  of  thinking  over  that  now.  You 
can't  undo  it,  can  you?" 

"No,  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  could.  I'd  give  my 
life  to  help  her — to  save  her  from  the  misery  of  it 
all." 

"Give  it  then.     There  is  only  one  way  to  give 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  69 

your  life  for  hers — by  dedicating  it  to  your  art. 
Let  her  be  your  inspiration — the  glory  of  your 
labors.  Sing  your  love  for  her  into  your  poems, 
and  let  her  realize  it — let  her  feel  that  she  has 
not  sacrificed  herself  for  nothing.  She  has  given 
you  all  she  could  give.  Treasure  her  gift  in  the 
soil  of  your  heart,  so  that  it  may  grow  into  the  fruit 
of  your  art  and  be  a  nourishing  blessing  to  others. 
The  woman  in  her  will  take  joy  in  that,  and  it  will 
make  her  feel  that  her  broken  life  has  not  been 
broken  in  vain." 

"Your  medicine,  Sholes,  is  very  bitter  to  the 
taste.  And  yet,  I  don't  know  what  else  to  do." 

"The  ills  of  weakness  cannot  be  cured,  they  can 
only  be  endured  by  bitter  repentance  and  mighty 
effort.  It's  easy  to  slip  down  the  incline  but  it's 
very  hard  to  climb  up  again.  Come,  take  the 
money.  I'll  meet  you  at  the  railway  station  to  see 
you  off  by  the  midnight  train.  Will  you  be 
there?" 

"You  have  convinced  me  there  is  no  alternative." 
Randall  looked  up  at  his  friend,  and  his  face  showed 
aged  with  its  dark-rimmed  eyes  and  drawn  mouth. 
"But  I  can't  go  to-night.  I  must  see  her  before  I 
go.  I  had  a  note  from  her  just  before  I  left 
home,  in  which  she  begs  me  to  see  her  early  to- 
morrow morning." 

Sholes's  face  lit  up  as  with  a  smile  of  triumph, 
but  the  smile  quickly  disappeared. 

"Write  her  instead." 

"But  she  says  she  has  something  very  impor- 
tant to  say  to  me." 

"I  know  what  she  would  say  to  you." 


70  The  Silver  Age 

"You  know?" 

"Yes — she  will  ask  you  to  do  what  I  am  asking 
of  you — to  go  away." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

Sholes  smiled.     "She  told  me,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Randall  looked  at  the  bookseller  in  blank  aston- 
ishment. 

"She  told  you  that  she  wished  me  to  leave  Mere- 
ston?"  he  repeated  slowly. 

Sholes  continued  to  smile  and  nodded. 

"Come,  my  boy,  don't  misjudge  her";  he  seized 
Randall's  coat  by  its  two  lapels  and  shook  him. 
Then,  looking  straight  into  the  young  man's  eyes, 
he  raised  his  rich  voice  to  a  solemn  note: 

"If  you  believe  in  my  friendship  for  you,  you 
must  surely  believe  in  her  self-sacrificing  love." 

The  words  were  almost  chanted;  they  sank  into 
Randall  who  bowed  his  head,  so  that  it  almost  lay 
on  Sholes's  breast.  Slowly  he  raised  his  hands  and 
taking  hold  of  both  Sholes's  he  pressed  them 
hard.  In  a  broken  voice,  he  cried: 

"I  am  not  worth  it,  dear  friend,  I  am  not  worth 
it."  The  bookseller's  face  shone  with  gladness. 

"You  will  be,  my  lad.  I  am  certain  of  that. 
Send  us  both  an  early  copy  of  your  first  book.  It 
will  tell  us  more  than  a  thousand  letters.  But  we 
must  be  going  now,  if  you  are  to  get  ready  for 
your  journey.  Here's  the  money." 

Randall  shivered  and  pocketing  the  notes,  turned 
groping  to  the  door.  Sholes  dropped  the  manu- 
script into  the  desk,  put  out  the  light,  and  the 
two  passed  out  into  the  black,  foggy  night. 


The  Lady  and  the  Singing-bird  71 

"I'll  be  at  the  station  at  11.45."  Sholes's  words 
were  borne  on  a  wreath  of  steaming  breath. 

"I'll  be  there,"  Randall  mournfully  steamed 
back. 

Two  long  black  patches  separated  in  different 
directions  and  were  dissolved  in  the  fog. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  in  the  late  spring  fol- 
lowing Randall's  departure  for  London.  Sholes 
sat  in  his  accustomed  seat  in  the  shop,  smoking  his 
post-prandial  cigar,  and  reading  the  newspaper.  Near 
the  door,  and  hidden  by  the  counter,  crouched  Caliban 
William,  reading.  A  nearer  view  would  have  shown 
that  his  face  was  cleaner,  his  hair  better  trimmed  and 
his  clothes  more  presentable  than  of  old.  He  seemed 
to  be  enjoying  the  book — Kingsley's  "Westward 
Ho." — and  the  eager  expression  on  his  features  im- 
parted a  quaint  charm  to  their  ungainliness. 

"Postman!"  A  figure  darkened  the  entrance. 
The  boy  jumped  up  alertly  and  received  a  small 
package.  Stepping  softly,  he  made  his  way  to 
where  the  bookseller  sat.  He  placed  the  parcel 
on  the  desk,  and  was  about  to  draw  Sholes's  at- 
tention to  it,  when  a  cry  broke  from  the  book- 
seller's lips.  The  boy  slipped  away  quickly  and 
noiselessly;  he  had  seen  that  set,  white  face  before, 
and  it  boded  no  good. 

Sholes  was  sitting,  staring  at  the  paper  in  his 
hand,  as  if  paralyzed.  Presently  he  laid  the  sheet 
on  his  knees,  and  bowed  his  head  on  his  breast. 

"So — so  that's  the  end,"  he  sighed,  "God  keep 
her!  God  keep  her!"  The  mask-like  face  was 
drawn  and  twisted.  A  tear  slipped  down  the 


72  The  Silver  Age 

cheek  and  was  lost  in  the  beard.  He  took  the 
paper  up  again  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  a  corner  of 
the  page : 

"April  23rd  at  Oxberry,  Alison  Whately,  aged 
25  years,  beloved  wife  of  John  Whately,  in  child- 
birth." 

uAfter  life's  fitful  fever,  she  sleeps  well,"  he 
muttered. 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and,  leaving  the  paper 
lying  on  it,  turned  to  lean  against  the  desk,  when 
his  eye  caught  sight  of  the  parcel.  Mechanically, 
he  cut  the  string  which  bound  it  and,  removing  the 
brown  paper  wrapper,  took  out  a  book.  With 
the  instinct  born  of  his  trade,  he  turned  to  the 
title-page : 

"A  Life  for  a  Life:  A  Sonnet  Sequence.  By 
Stuart  Randall."  He  turned  the  leaves  idly. 

"I  wonder  if  it's  worth  the  price,"  he  mur- 
mured. 


"ANY  VINDERS  TO  MEND?" 


73 


A  grassy  bank,  a  shading  tree, 

A  rippling  brook  that  murmurs  low, 

With  just  a  sigh  as  of  the  sea 
The  wind  breathes  where  the  rushes  grow. 

A  golden  mist  by  sunlight  spread 

Of  which  I  build  my  castles  fair, 
Green  whisp'ring  leaves  above  my  head 

Which    messages    from    heaven   bear. 

Here  I  lie  my  heart  enchanted; 

Yet  question  why  the  needs  of  man 
Bar  the  aims  of  those  God  granted 

Souls  to  aspire  His  ways  to  plan. 

All  our  strivings  through  the-  ages 
Since  first  Lord  Jesus  loved  and  taught, 

Still  finds  us  delving  for  mere  wages, 
In  economic  prisons  caught. 

Grass   and  trees   and  murmuring  streams 
And  airs  washed  golden  by  the  sun, 

Are  now  but  stuff  for  poets'  dreams, 
To  labor  lost,  and  rarely  won. 

Yet  gold  of  sun  and  song  of  brook 
Have  magic  gifts  our  days  to  dower, 

Which  never  gods  from  anvils  struck, 
And  ever  wait  our  spirits'  hour. 


74 


"ANY   VINDERS  TO   MEND?" 

THE  street-criers  of  cities  are  rarely  heard 
now,  even  in  London,  where  the  airs  of  the 
various  seasons  were  once  musical  with  their 
calls.  "Trade's  unfeeling  train"  has  usurped  the 
land  and  dispossessed  these  picturesque  swains  of 
their  ancient  rights  and  privileges,  and  the  warblers 
have  long  since  migrated  to  where  blow  kinder 
airs.  I  suppose  the  modern  newspaper,  with  its 
tradesmen's  advertisements,  is  a  better  guide  and 
helper  than  was  the  itinerant  cobbler  or  the  travel- 
ing tinker;  yet  I  cannot  help  feeling  a  regret  that 
these  peripatetic  peddlers  no  longer  play  their  part 
in  the  dramas  of  life. 

I  recall  these  acquaintances  of  my  boyhood  as  I 
sit  listening  to  the  bells  that  are  chiming  in  the 
new  year,  because  it  was  on  the  eve  of  a  new  year 
that  I  first  met  one  of  these  criers  of  the  streets 
whose  beneficent  influence  on  my  life  is  still  an 
abiding  force.  I  remember  as  though  it  were  but 
yesterday  that  cold  December  afternoon,  as  I  sat 
by  the  window  watching  the  snowflakes  falling, 
hearing  a  voice  in  the  street  cry:  "Any  vinders  to 
mend?  Any  vinders  to  me-end?"  I  peered  into 
the  greying  dusk,  and  saw  a  man  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  his  head  raised,  his  hands  held 
funnel-wise  to  his  mouth.  On  his  back  was 
strapped  a  wooden  crate  loaded  with  squares  of 
glass.  My  mother  bade  me  call  the  man  in  to 

»  75 


76  The  Silver  Age 

repair  one  of  the  panes  in  a  kitchen  window 
which  had  long  needed  a  glazier's  attention. 

The  poor  fellow  was  stiff  from  the  cold  and 
seemed  very  grateful  for  the  permission  granted 
him  to  warm  his  hands  over  the  fire.  He  ex- 
cused himself  for  the  odor  that  came  from  his 
clothes,  which,  he  explained,  was  due  to  the  oil 
in  the  putty  with  which  they  were  smeared.  I 
noticed  that  his  features  were  remarkably  dis- 
tinguished, unlike  those  of  any  Jew  I  had  seen 
before.  The  nose  was  straight,  with  finely  chis- 
eled nostrils,  and  the  face  clean  shaven  except 
for  a  short,  bushy  mustache  that  gave  him 
something  of  a  foreign  military  air.  He  had 
taken  off  his  greasy  cap  on  entering  the  room, 
and  I  was  struck  by  the  beautiful  white  forehead 
which  shone  below  the  closely  cropped  grisly 
hair  in  the  gas-light.  I  was  deeply  interested  to 
see  him  at  work,  especially  when  he  began  to 
cut  the  glass  to  size  with  a  small  instrument  he 
called  a  diamond. 

"Are  you  a  Jew?"  I  asked  with  a  boy's  im- 
pertinence, as  he  stood  softening  the  putty  before 
the  fire.  He  nodded  his  head,  with  an  amused 
look. 

"Were  you  born  in  Palestine?" 

He   laughed. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  was  born  in  Warsaw."  He 
pronounced  it  "Varshaw." 

"Where   is  that?" 

"In  Poland.  It  is  the  capital  of  that  coun- 
try." 

"Do  you  like  being  a  glazier?" 


"Any  Finders  to  Mend?"  77 

"I  must  like  it.     I  have  to  earn  a  living." 

"Were  you  a  glazier  in  Varshaw?" 

I  have  never  forgotten  the  look  he  gave  me.  In- 
stinctively, I  realized,  though  I  was  only  a  boy, 
that  I  had  made  a  mistake. 

"My  little  lad,"  he  said  sternly,  "you  seem  to  be 
a  nice  boy,  but  I  will  take  the  liberty  to  say  to  you 
that  it  is  not  to  be  a  gentleman  to  be  too  inquisi- 
tive. In  Poland  we  are  gentlemen." 

He  spoke  with  difficulty  and  with  a  strong  for- 
eign accent.  I  hung  my  head  in  shame  at  his  words. 

"You  are  a  good  boy,"  he  said  in  a  changed  voice, 
and  patted  me  with  his  putty-smeared  hand.  "It 
is  the  part  of  a  gentleman  to  ask  pardon  when  he 
has  done  wrongi  and  I  see  you  are  sorry.  We  are 
friends  again,  are  we  not?" 

Smiling,  I  looked  up  at  him,  and  he  nodded  his 
head,  satisfied,  as  he  turned  to  finish  his  task.  My 
mother  came  in  to  pay  him,  and  she  asked  if  he 
would  drink  a  cup  of  tea  to  keep  him  warm  on  his 
way  home.  He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  as  if  to 
search  for  her  motive,  and  then  he  bowed  politely. 
It  would  give  him  great  pleasure,  he  said,  to  accept 
her  hospitality;  "but  in  my  country,"  he  explained, 
"we  drink  tea  a  la  Russe,  in  a  glass,  with  lemon  and 
lump  sugar,  and  I  still  keep  to  the  custom  here." 
He  drank  not  one,  but  several  glasses,  and  enjoyed 
the  steaming  brew  hugely.  I  tried  to  drink  a  glass 
with  him,  but  I  had  difficulty  in  keeping  the  sugar 
in  my  mouth  unmelted.  This  amused  him  greatly 
and  afforded  him  the  opportunity  to  give  a  lesson 
in  this  form  of  tea-drinking.  Thus  began  my 
friendship  with  Leon  Wiener,  the  Polish  exile,  a 


78  The  Silver  Age 

friendship  which,  though  it  is  ended  in  the  body, 
will  continue  in  the  spirit  as  long  as  I  live.  On 
leaving  he  begged  I  would  visit  him  in  his  humble 
lodging,  so  that  he  might  have  the  pleasure  of  re- 
turning the  hospitality  he  had  enjoyed  in  my  home. 
I  promised  eagerly,  and  I  still  possess  the  piece  of 
paper,  greased  with  putty,  with  his  pencilled  address 
on  it. 

Very  humble  indeed  was  the  third-story  attic  in 
which  I  found  him  one  Saturday  afternoon  in  Janu- 
ary; but  the  room  was  spotlessly  clean,  and  the  little 
fire-grate  flamed  very  invitingly.  On  a  table  near 
the  hearth  stood  a  gleaming  brass  samovar  steaming 
merrily.  He  did  the  duties  of  host  in  a  manner  at 
once  so  dignified  and  kindly  that  I  felt  I  was  a 
person  of  importance  being  entertained  at  a  feast. 
He  was  quite  changed  in  his  appearance.  In  place 
of  the  tired,  greasy  workman  I  had  previously  met, 
I  now  saw  a  neatly  dressed  gentleman  of  distinction 
who  might  have  passed  for  an  army  officer  in  mufti. 
Tea  served,  he  began  by  inquiring  about  my  studies, 
and  when  I  told  him  I  had  just  graduated  into  the 
higher  classes,  he  said: 

"You  must  learn  French.  That  is  the  one  lan- 
guage which  a  gentleman  must  know.  The  French 
are  the  only  people  in  the  world  who  know  how  to 
live.  English-speaking  people  cannot  understand 
them,  because  they  take  life  too  seriously  and  think 
the  French  are  frivolous.  But  they  are  far  from 
being  frivolous;  they  are  just  happy  as  children  are 
happy.  They  have  been  taught  by  suffering  that 
happiness  is  all  that  life  means.  They  are  happy 
also  because  they  are  brave,  for  all  brave  people  are 


"Any  Finders  to  Mend?"  79 

glad  to  be  alive.  This  is  the  first  lesson  you  must 
learn  my  boy,  because  God  made  you  that  you 
should  be  glad  He  made  you.  A  great  Jewish  phil- 
osopher, Baruch  Spinosa,  said,  'A  free  man  fears 
nothing  less  than  death,'  and  the  French  will  teach 
you  the  meaning  of  that  splendid  thought.  Ah,  if 
I  had  not  been  born  a  Pole,  I  would  have  thanked 
God  to  be  born  a  Frenchman,  to  have  nursed  my 
soul  at  the  breast  of  France,  that  daughter  of  His- 
tory bred  in  Romance !  But  we  Poles  are  very  like 
Frenchmen.  We  like  to  eat  good  food,  to  drink  fine 
wines,  to  dance  our  mazurkas,  to  fight  against 
oppression  and  tyranny,  to  love  our  women,  and  to 
honor  our  parents.  It  will  always  be  well  with  the 
land  where  the  children  reverence  their  fathers  and 
mothers.  Your  mother  is  a  gracious  lady.  Never 
forget  that,  and  the  memory  of  her  will  be  as  a 
guiding  star  to  you  in  the  journey  of  your  life." 
He  paused,  and  took  a  long  drink. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  of  Pushkin?  No,  of 
course  not.  How  could  you?  Well,  Pushkin  is 
our  great  Slav  poet,  who  has  written  the  most  beau- 
tiful songs  in  praise  of  women  and  home  and 
country.  I  wish  you  could  understand  the  language, 
for  I  would  recite  some  of  his  poems  to  you.  Then 
there  is  Turgenieff,  the  Russian  novelist,  and  Sienkie- 
wicz,  Poland's  great  writer  of  historical  romances, 
and  Krasinski,  the  historian  of  Poland.  Some  day 
you  will  read  their  books,  but  Pushkin  can  never  be 
translated;  never.  His  songs  are  like  the  droppings 
of  honeycombs  on  a  bright  summer's  day.  Will 
you  have  another  glass  of  tea?  It  will  do  you  no 
harm,  and  it  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  have  you 


8o  The  Silver  Age 

here  to  talk  to.  You  have  unloosed  the  streams  of 
a  memory  that  circumstance  has  held  frozen  for 
many  years.  It  is  like  being  at  home  again.  Ah, 
I  see  you  would  like  to  know  more  of  me  and  my 
country,  not  so?  I  know  you  are  inquisitive.  Ha! 
ha  I  ha  1  Pardon,  that  I  remind  you  of  your  faux 
pas.  But  it  is  different  now.  Nu;  so  you  shall 
listen  while  an  old  man  talks." 

Then  he  told  me  a  strange  tale  of  a  revolution,  of 
fighting  in  the  cause  of  Poland's  freedom  from 
Russian  oppression,  of  defeat,  and  of  his  flight  for 
his  life.  He  had  possessed  a  great  estate,  and  he 
dwelt  lovingly  on  its  beauties  and  the  happiness  he 
had  known  there;  but  all  had  been  lost,  and  he  was 
now  an  exile.  He  spoke  of  his  travels,  of  the  peo- 
ple he  had  met,  of  the  trials  he  had  suffered,  of  his 
hopes  of  the  future.  He  told  it  all  very  simply 
and  only  after  many  questionings  from  me.  I 
learned  then  the  details  of  his  escape  over  the 
frozen  snows  in  long  sleigh-rides  on  frosty  nights, 
with  the  bells  tinkling  round  the  horses'  necks.  I 
seemed  to  be  listening  to  a  romance  as  I  sat  by  the 
fireside  sipping  my  lemon  tea,  trying  to  realize 
those  wonderful  happenings  in  a  world  of  which  I 
could  form  no  idea. 

"It  is  all  gone,  and  will  never  be  again,"  he  said 
with  a  plaintive  note  in  his  voice,  and  a  smile.  "I 
am  only  a  glazier  now.  I  can  say  with  Leonardo 
da  Vinci,  'While  I  thought  I  was  learning  how  to 
live,  I  have  been  learning  how  to  die/  But  I  should 
do  it  all  over  again — for  Poland's  sake."  His  face 
took  on  a  rapt  expression  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to 
the  skylight  window  in  the  low  ceiling.  The  next 


"Any  Finders  to  Mend?"  81 

moment,  however,  he  was  himself  again.  "Let  us 
drink  a  toast!"  He  stood  up,  and  placing  one  hand 
on  his  hip,  he  lifted  his  glass  high,  "To  the  mem- 
ory of  Kosciuszko!"  I  repeated  the  words  after 
him,  though  I  knew  not  what  they  meant. 

"Who  was  Kosciuszko?"  I  asked,  with  a  smile. 

"Ah,  I  forgot  you  were  only  a  boy.  I  will  tell 
you  about  him  another  day.  Will  you  not  honor  me 
with  your  company  next  Saturday?  You  shall  hear 
all  about  Kosciuszko  then." 

I  promised  to  come. 

"Good;  and  now  it  is  time  for  you  to  go  back  to 
your  dear  mother.  Tell  her  that  I  have  enjoyed 
your  society  exceedingly.  That  is  my  message  to 
her,  and  she  will  understand.  Au  revoir,  then,  my 
young  friend.  I  can  see  we  shall  be  great — how  do 
you  call  it? — chums.  Is  not  that  the  right  word? 
But  remember." — and  he  held  up  a  warning  finger, 
— "never  tell  a  lie,  and  always  wear  clean  linen." 

As  I  walked  away  I  could  not  help  speculating  as 
to  what  he  could  mean  by  advising  me  about  my 
linen.  I  was  sure  it  was  clean,  for  I  had  changed 
only  that  morning.  I  asked  my  mother  about  it 
when  I  got  home,  and  she  smiled. 

"I  expect,"  she  said,  "the  people  he  meets  now 
are  not  very  particular  in  that  matter.  But  ask  him 
to  explain  on  your  next  visit." 

The  following  Saturday,  when  we  were  seated 
by  the  fireside  with  the  samovar  between  us,  I  put 
my  question,  and  told  him  the  explanation  my 
mother  had  given. 

"Your  mother  grows  in  my  estimation  the  more 
I  know  of  her,"  he  said,  laughing.  "She  is  quite 


82  The  Silver  Age 

right.  The  world  I  live  in  now  is  very  different 
from  the  world  I  once  knew.  Clean  linen  is  the 
one  luxury  left  me  by  which  I  keep  my  mind  in  tune 
with  the  dignity  of  my  heart.  We  may  not  be  able 
always  to  afford  fine  clothes,  but  we  can  always 
afford  clean  linen,  even  if  we  have  to  wash  it  our- 
selves, and  clean  linen  is  a  sign  of  good  breeding. 
And  now  to  Kosciuszko,  shall  we  ?" 

It  was  not  until  years  later  that  I  understood 
fully  what  he  told  me  then  of  Poland's  patriot  and 
Poland's  struggle  for  independence.  His  narra- 
tive was  so  interspersed  with  long  explanations  of 
events  entirely  unfamiliar  to  me,  and  he  named  such 
strange-sounding  names,  that  I  was  very  little  the 
wiser  as  to  the  true  inwardness  of  the  whole  busi- 
ness. But  I  carried  away  with  me,  none  the  less,  an 
exalted  sense  of  the  rare  nobility  of  a  human  life, 
of  its  unselfish  devotion  to  a  pure  ideal,  of  the 
charm  and  loveableness  of  a  great  character.  And 
I  am  sure  now  that  this  was  all  that  my  friend  in- 
tended I  should  feel.  He  hoped,  he  said,  that  I, 
too,  would  keep  the  lamp  of  liberty  burning  when 
I  should  have  learned  how  to  trim  its  wick. 

I  visited  him  frequently  for  two  or  three  years, 
during  the  whole  of  which  time  he  was  both  my 
mentor  and  friend.  He  helped  me  with  my  studies, 
enriching  the  meager  information  of  my  school- 
books  with  commentaries  and  narratives  that  seemed 
to  come  from  him  as  from  an  inexhaustible  fountain. 
I  am  not  able  to  recall  many  of  the  details  of  these 
conversations,  but  the  memory  of  them  arouses  in 
me  now  the  same  sensations  as  of  a  new  enlighten- 
ment I  then  experienced  after  each  visit  I  paid 


"Any  Finders  to  Mend?"  83 

him.  He  rarely  touched  on  religion.  Only  once  do 
I  remember  his  making  a  reference  to  it,  when  I 
showed  him  a  prettily  bound  New  Testament  in 
French  that  a  relative  had  sent  me  on  my  sixteenth 
birthday.  He  held  the  little  volume  tenderly  as  he 
turned  its  leaves  for  some  moments  in  silence. 

"Ah,"  he  said  musingly,  uthat  book  makes  me 
proud  of  being  a  Jew.  Study  it  well,  for  there  are 
truths  in  it  which  will  not  be  understood  for  many 
generations  to  come."  Then,  as  he  handed  the  book 
back  to  me,  he  added:  "They  say  he  claimed  to  be 
the  Messiah,  but  that  is  not  true.  There  is  only 
one  Messiah,  and  he  is  always  with  us — in  our  own 
hearts." 

A  year  later  I  went  up  to  college,  so  that  my 
meetings  with  Leon  Wiener  were  necessarily 
broken  off.  We  saw  each  other,  however,  during 
my  vacations,  when  he  continued  to  be  the  same 
dear  friend  I  had  always  found  him;  very  eager  to 
know  all  about  my  work,  very  curious  as  to  what  I 
was  reading,  asking  many  questions  as  to  the  young 
men  I  was  meeting,  the  friendships  I  was  making, 
and  the  tutors  under  whom  I  was  studying.  He 
urged  me  over  and  over  again  to  pay  special  atten- 
tion to  the  study  of  history  and  economics,  two 
subjects,  he  said  solemnly,  to  which  I  could  not 
give  too  much  time.  One  of  my  last  meetings  with 
him  was  on  the  evening  of  the  attempted  assassina- 
tion of  Emperor  Nicholas  II  of  Russia.  I  found 
him  in  a  state  of  unusual  excitement,  walking  up 
and  down  his  garret,  gesticulating,  and  cracking  his 
finger- joints. 

"A  thousand  pities!  a  thousand  pities!"  he  kept 


84  The  Silver  Age 

exclaiming.  "I  have  told  Stepniak  and  Krapotkin 
again  and  again  that  this  is  the  wrong  way,  that 
this  is  the  one  way  to  bring  the  cause  to  ruins 
about  us.  They  tried  it  with  Alexander  the 
Second,  and  nothing  came  of  it,  and  now  they  are 
at  it  again.  O  Russia,  Russia,  thou  hast  too  much 
heart  and  too  little  head!" 

"How  is  it  possible,"  I  asked,  "for  the  Russian 
people  to  throw  off  the  Romanoff  yoke  and  success- 
fully maintain  a  democracy  when  the  great  mass 
of  them  have  just  been  released  from  serfdom? 
Liberty  must  become  a  national  religion,  so  to  speak, 
before  it  can  be  established  in  institutions." 

"You  are  right;  but  that  is  not  the  vital  ques- 
tion for  Russia.  You  speak  as  a  theorist  and  a 
student;  but  the  situation  in  Russia  must  be  dealt 
with  by  those  who  know  the  actual  conditions  there. 
Ask  rather,  How  is  it  possible  for  the  Russian  peo- 
ple to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  Prussia?  There  lies 
the  problem,  and  it  is  a  hard  one  to  solve;  because 
the  leaders  of  Russian  enlightenment,  who  have 
been  educated  by  German  socialists,  do  not  see  the 
deep  Machiavellian  policy  which  is  behind  the 
German  Government's  relations  with  Russia.  They 
think  that  the  German  socialists  mean  to  carry  out 
all  they  teach  and  preach;  they  do  not  realize  that 
these  socialists  can  and  will  do  nothing,  because 
they  have  been  born  and  trained  in  the  school  of 
Prussian  militarism.  They  do  not  see  that  Ger- 
many has  a  yoke  of  her  own,  the  heaviest  and  most 
debilitating  of  all  yokes,  that  of  a  military  autoc- 
racy, to  throw  off  before  the  socialists  can  do 
anything.  They  do  know  that  the  Russian  reigning 


"Any  Finders  to  Mend?"  85 

family  has  been  thoroughly  Germanized, — the 
process  began  with  Catharine  the  Great, — but  they 
do  not  know  that  Russia's  bureaucracy  and  Russia's 
commercial  and  industrial  enterprises  are  all  in  the 
hands  of  Germans,  and  therefore  subject  to  Prus- 
sia's will.  Study  the  life  of  the  Empress  Catharine, 
and  you  will  have  revealed  to  you  the  real  nature 
of  the  Prussian  dynastic  family.  She  was  the  ram- 
pant, unbridled  Teuton.  That's  the  stuff  that  rules 
Germany  to-day.  Look  at  the  treatment  given  the 
Jews  in  Russia.  That  is  not  of  the  spirit  of  the 
genuine  Russian,  who  is  a  gentleman  and  bears  a 
kind  heart.  It  is  the  outcome  of  that  Judenhetze 
which  sprang  from  Germany.  The  Russian  people 
must  and  will  achieve  freedom  some  day,  but  it 
will  be  only  when  they  realize  that  they  have  been 
fooled  by  Prussian  intrigue.  And  when  Russia 
obtains  her  freedom,  Poland  will  also  be  a  nation 
once  again.  I  know  the  Prussian  only  too  well;  my 
name  betrays  the  taint  of  his  blood.  I  have  lived 
with  him  and  seen  the  true  nature  that  he  covers 
with  his  bluff  and  smiling  exterior,  and  it  is  bestial. 
He  wears  fine  clothes,  but  the  linen  next  his  skin  is 
dirty,  and  his  heart  is  false.  I  will  not  live  to  see 
the  day,  but  you  will,  and  mark  my  words,  Europe 
will  then  lie  stricken  to  death  because  of  his  insa- 
tiable passion  for  power  and  his  ruthlessness  to 
obtain  it.  Napoleon  regretted  he  had  not  destroyed 
the  nation,  and  the  world  will  echo  his  regret.  But 
why  do  I  talk?  I  have  lived  my  life,  and  there  is 
nothing  left  for  me  now  but  to  mend  broken 
windows." 

Tan  Wiener,"    I   said,   "you   have   mended   the 


86  The  Silver  Age 

windows  of  minds  as  well  as  of  houses.  Let  us 
forget  this  sad  business  in  a  glass  of  tea.  The  spirit 
of  Kosciuszko  still  lives  and  will  never  die." 

"You  are  right,  my  dear  friend,  and  I  thank  you 
for  reminding  me  of  that  great  soul.  It  is  good 
for  the  heart  to  keep  it  warm  with  love." 

I  left  him  with  his  promise  to  go  for  a  walk 
with  me  into  the  country.  That  country  ramble 
stands  out  in  my  memory  as  one  of  the  events  of 
my  life.  The  day  was  warm  and  blue  and  golden, 
the  very  air  seemed  spangled  with  sunlight,  and 
the  lanes  were  leafy  aisles  filled  with  the  incense  of 
flowers. 

"Ah,  how  much  we  miss  who  live  in  cities !"  he 
exclaimed,  as  he  stopped  by  a  bunch  of  honey- 
suckles on  a  hedge.  "It  is  many  years  since  I 
have  breathed  the  life-giving  airs  of  the  open  fields 
and  heard  the  songs  of  happy  birds.  We  who  are 
compelled  to  live  by  the  labor  of  our  hands  are 
rarely  permitted  to  look  up  and  around;  we  can 
only  look  down  for  the  next  mouthful  of  grass,  like 
the  oxen  in  the  meadows.  Still,  our  hearts  have 
their  eyes  also,  and  we  can  look  up  with  them.  Our 
cities  are  barren  places,  and  would  be  unbearable 
if  we  did  not  look  with  our  hearts  to  find  the  brave 
and  aspiring  souls  who  keep  on  loving  and  hoping 
while  they  are  working,  and,  who,  like  these  flowers 
of  the  fields,  fill  the  dreary  wastes  of  the  streets 
with  the  perfume  of  their  natures.  They  are  God's 
human  flowers,  and  they  are  growing  even  in  the 
slums  and  Ghettos.  My  friend,  never  give  way  to 
the  temptation  to  become  a  cynic;  for  that  way  lie 
misery  and  death.  God's  way  is  the  way  of  life 


"Any  Finders  to  Mend?"  87 

through  love  and  the  joy  that  comes  from  the  dig- 
nity of  simple  being.  Here" — and  he  spread  his 
arms  abroad — "here  is  God's  way,  where  you  see 
flowers  blooming,  birds  singing,  trees  and  grass 
growing  to  ripeness,  and  you  and  I  walking  in  con- 
sciousness of  the  beauty  and  the  loving-kindness  of 
it  all.  It  will  be  likewise  in  cities  some  day,  but 
that  day  will  come  the  sooner  if  we,  who  live  in 
them  now,  will  bear  a  friendly  hand  and  open  the 
treasure-houses  of  our  divinely  gifted  minds  to  all 
in  the  spirit  of  comradeship.  That  is  the  meaning 
of  liberty,  as  it  is  of  the  brotherhood  of  man,  about 
which  so  many  have  said  so  much.  You  will  par- 
don an  old  man  for  talking  to  himself  aloud,  but 
this  beauty  has  made  me  a  little  sad.  It  is  so  full 
of  life,  and  I  am  no  longer  what  I  was.  That 
inn  in  the  distance  looks  inviting;  shall  we  rest 
there  and  drink  a  glass  of  tea?" 

I  lay  awake  that  night  filled  with  the  emotions 
my  friend  had  aroused  in  me.  It  seemed  as  if 
I  had  been  walking  and  talking  with  a  visitor  from 
another  world,  who  had  stayed  just  long  enough 
to  bless  me,  and  had  then  departed  never  to  return.  I 
had  long  since  given  up  speculating  about  him, 
for  I  knew  that  to  do  that  was  to  lose  his  charm 
and  to  deny  myself  the  enjoyment  of  the  rare 
fruits  of  thought  with  which  he  bountifully  fed 
my  mind.  I  accepted  him  as  I  did  the  day's  sun- 
light or  the  changes  of  the  seasons,  so  that  he 
became  a  part  of  my  life.  His  companionship  was 
a  benediction,  and  his  speech  a  magic  music  that 
lifted  me  on  the  mounting  pinions  of  its  thought. 
What  was  it  in  our  economic  system  that  con- 


88  The  Silver  Age 

demned  such  a  man  to  walk  the  stony  ways  merely 
to  keep  soul  and  body  together? 

The  next  morning  I  went  up  to  college,  and  did 
not  see  my  friend  until  the  Christmas  vacation. 
When  I  called  on  him  again  I  thought  he  was 
looking  greatly  aged.  His  face  was  pinched  and 
grey,  and  his  clothes  hung  loosely  about  him.  But 
he  had  lost  nothing  of  his  debonair  gaiety,  and  he 
still  drank  his  lemon  tea  as  though  it  were  the 
rarest  of  vintages.  We  spent  some  unforgettable 
evenings  together  when  the  old  spirit  in  him  flamed 
as  brightly  as  ever.  He  had  moved  to  a  cheaper 
lodging,  for  he  found  he  was  no  longer  able  to  ply 
his  trade  in  bad  weather.  The  shining  samovar 
steamed  as  brightly  as  ever,  and  if  the  fire  in  the 
tiny  grate  did  not  flame  as  brightly  as  it  once  did, 
he  made  up  for  it  by  the  fire  in  his  eyes  when  he 
warmed  to  his  thoughts.  I  had  brought  him  a  box 
of  choice  Havanas  as  a  Christmas  gift,  and  his 
enjoyment  of  the  aroma,  as  he  blew  the  smoke 
appreciatingly  from  his  lips,  brought  up  a  lasting 
vision  of  him  at  that  moment  in  his  own  home  in 
Poland. 

A  week  later,  when  I  paid  my  last  visit  before 
going  up  to  college  for  my  final  examinations,  I 
was  shocked  to  find  him  in  bed,  suffering  from  an 
injured  back.  Some  boys  had  thrown  stones  at 
him  as  he  was  crying  his  trade,  and  he  had  slipped 
on  the  icy  pavement.  One  of  the  staples  of  the 
crate  he  carried  had  dug  itself  between  his  shoul- 
der-blades, and  he  had  to  be  borne  home  on  a 
stretcher.  I  was  heartbroken  to  see  him,  and  t 
cried  aloud  in  anger  at  the  wretched  boys. 


"Any  Finders  to  Mend?"  89 

"No,  no,  my  friend,"  he  said,  smiling  through 
his  pain,  "do  not  be  angry  with  them;  they  did 
not  know  what  they  were  doing.  This  is  not  the 
first  time  such  an  accident  has  happened  to  me.  I 
shall  be  better  soon.  Ah,  dear  friend,  I  am  truly 
glad  to  see  you." 

He  did  not  get  better  soon.  I  engaged  a  nurse 
to  wait  on  him,  and  saw  that  he  had  the  best 
medical  aid;  but  it  was  all  of  no  avail.  He  suffered 
greatly  for  ten  days,  and  then  one  night,  when 
I  was  sitting  on  the  bed  by  his  side,  he  opened 
his  eyes  and  looked  at  me  with  his  old  beautiful 
smile. 

"This  is  the  end,  dear  friend,"  he  whispered, 
laying  a  thin,  wasted  hand  on  mine.  "You  will 
not  forget  me?" 

I  bent  over  and  kissed  him  on  his  trembling 
lips,  when,  still  smiling,  he  gave  a  faint  sigh,  and 
I  knew  that  my  friend  had  at  last  found  rest. 

The  bells  have  long  since  ceased  chiming  the 
New  Year's  advent,  and  soon  the  world  will  awake 
to  resume  the  march  of  life.  We  shall  work  and 
love  and  hope  as  we  did  in  the  past  year,  and 
perhaps,  with  stouter  hearts,  because  of  the  high 
cause  to  which  our  spirits  have  been  consecrated  in 
the  year  just  gone.  Yet  is  our  new  enterprise  of 
the  same  nature  as  were  all  the  noble  enthusiasms 
of  the  past,  which  have  heartened  us  to  climb  to 
the  Pisgah  height  from  which  we  now  view  the 
promised  land  of  democracy.  Of  great  adventures 
in  such  causes  history  tells  a  splendid  tale;  but  there 
were  many  of  that  noble  company  whose  names 
were  writ  in  water  who  deserve  a  tablet  to  their 


90  The  Silver  Age 

memory.  Among  such  I  count  this  street-crier.  I 
know  not  if  glaziers  still  walk  the  street  crying, 
"Any  vinders  to  mend?"  but  I  do  know  that 
should  I  hear  that  cry  again,  my  dear  friend 
would  come  back  to  me,  and  I  should  "ope  a  case- 
ment wide  to  let  the  warm  love  in";  for  in  my 
house  of  life,  at  least,  he  had  mended  all  its 
windows  with  the  love  of  the  Master. 


REB  YANKEL 


REB  YANKEL 

IN  the  district  of  London  known  as  Whitechapel, 
and  near  to  that  highway  of  the  Ghetto  which 
goes  by  the  name  of  Houndsditch,  there  is  a 
bye-street  dear  to  memory  as  Petticoat  Lane.  Half 
a  century  ago  it  was  the  Ghetto's  market.  On 
Sunday  mornings  it  was  a  place  for  fairs,  with 
the  noise  of  a  veritable  pandemonium  of  business. 
It  was  anything  but  a  clean  place,  but  as  many 
decent,  law-abiding,  God-fearing  citizens  abided 
in  its  purlieus  then  as  do  now,  since  it  has  been 
cleaned  by  the  Health  Board  of  London.  Flanked 
on  each  side  by  ricketty,  brick  houses  and  insignifi- 
cant little  shops,  the  sidewalks  were  taken  up  by 
stalls  and  barrows  loaded  with  fruits,  meats,  old 
clothes,  cheap  haberdashery,  tin  pots  and  pans,  and 
the  numberless  other  articles  necessary  for  human 
consumption  in  an  enlightened  metropolitan  com- 
munity. On  wet  days  its  cobblestones  and  pave- 
ments were  slushy,  slippery  and  greasy,  and  on  all 
days  the  street  exuded  the  sweat  of  dirt.  From 
many  of  the  shops  came  the  pungent  odors  of  fried 
fish,  fried  liver,  boiling  sausages  and  sauerkraut, 
pickled  cucumbers  in  large  glass  dishes,  salted 
herrings  in  wooden  barrels,  and  caraway-seeded 
bread.  Men,  women  and  children,  clad  in  bizarre 
costumes  in  which  the  Oriental  taste  still  asserted 
itself,  passed  and  repassed  in  continuous  streams. 
Occasionally  the  long  flowing  robes  of  a  visitor 

93 


94  The  Silver  Age 

from  Jerusalem  could  be  seen  as  the  Jerushalmin 
strode  in  dignity  with  fez-covered  head  in  the 
middle  of  the  roadway.  Here,  a  solemn  Israelite 
with  hands  crossed  in  the  sleeves  of  an  ample 
kaftan  and  a  yarmelke  or  skull-cap  on  his  head, 
and  the  two  long  locks  on  each  side  of  his  face 
stepped,  solemnly,  bent  as  if  brooding  on  other 
than  mere  earthly  things.  There,  an  ample  dame 
in  a  rich  cashmere  shawl  and  black-haired  wig 
elbowed  her  way  with  feminine  insistence  and  the 
self-assertion  born  of  worldly  riches.  At  night 
the  place  flared  with  the  lights  from  gas  jets, 
candles  and  torch-like  kerosene  lamps  hanging 
from  window  sashes  and  barrows,  all  contributing 
their  quota  of  odors  to  the  palpitating  air.  For 
a  few,  bleak  black  hours  only  was  there  anything 
like  silence,  and  even  then  belated  home-goers 
would  hear  the  snorings  of  the  weary  strugglers 
for  life  through  the  upper  windows  of  the  houses 
and  shops. 

Petticoat  Lane  bent  its  way  round  and  spread 
itself  out  as  a  meagre  square  which  received  the 
streams  of  life  from  three  other  bye-ways.  Run- 
ning eastward,  out  of  this  square,  was  a  short, 
squat,  flagged  cul  de  sac  ending  in  a  soot-blackened 
brick  wall,  known  as  New  Street.  A  retired 
parallelogram  of  earth-space,  New  Street  was  the 
playground  for  some  dozens  of  olive-skinned, 
brown-eyed  tatterdemalions  in  scanty  clothing  and 
in  bare  feet  mostly.  The  inmates  of  the  houses 
were  shopkeepers,  superior  peddlers  and  professional 
gentlemen,  all  of  the  Jewish  faith.  The  pro- 
fessional gentlemen  taught  there  and  directed  the 


Reb   Yankel  95 

steps  of  the  Children  of  Israel  who  lived  there 
and  elsewhere.  One  Mohel,  two  Chazonim,  and 
one  Rabbi,  occupied  between  them  three  of  the 
twenty  stunted  residences.  At  night  their  homes 
alone  showed,  until  a  late  hour,  glowing  blind- 
drawn  windows,  inviting  a  learned  friend,  or  tell- 
ing of  the  passionate  purpose  of  a  student  of  the 
Talmud  whose  sing-song  chanting  sounded  mourn- 
fully into  the  street. 

Yet  was  New  Street  a  haven  of  rest.  On  sum- 
mer evenings,  its  roof  of  leaden  sky  changed  oft- 
times  into  a  bluish  canopy  tinged  with  crimson  and 
gold  and  spangled,  here  and  there,  with  faint 
twinkling  stars.  On  Sabbaths  and  Festival  days 
it  was  lined  with  cheerful,  gaily  dressed  women 
seated  on  chairs,  when  the  weather  was  fine,  or 
chatting  in  hallways  when  it  was  inclement.  Sing- 
ing and  chanting  and  laughter  could  be  heard 
from  every  window  and  doorway.  Children 
played  or  quarreled.  Children  are  always  in  plenty 
in  a  Ghetto.  Now  and  then  a  male  figure  would 
rush  out  of  a  doorway  in  response  to  a  shrieking 
request  from  a  broad,  full-bosomed  woman,  and 
run  to  grab  a  grubby  imp  in  tattered  knickers  out 
of  the  clutches  of  a  grubbier  imp.  Sometimes  a 
tiny  damsel  would  fly  to  her  mother,  her  face 
grimy  with  knuckle-dried  tears,  to  complain  stri- 
dently of  some  insult  or  ill-treatment.  Here  a 
small  group  played  at  marbles  or  cherry  stones  in 
the  gutter;  there  another  group  at  hop-scotch  or 
leap  frog.  On  such  evenings  New  Street  was 
the  children's  paradise. 

"Michele!  Michele!"       The   call    came    from   a 


96  The  Silver  Age 

small,  frail  old  woman  in  a  blue  cotton  print 
gown  and  bandanna-covered  head,  standing  in  the 
doorway  of  one  of  the  houses.  She  was  beckon- 
ing excitedly  with  brown,  shriveled  hand  to  a 
curly-headed  five  year  old  lad,  who  on  hearing  his 
name  had  looked  up  at  her  with  his  big,  brown 
serious  eyes.  He  was  in  the  act  of  shooting  a 
marble.  "Michele!  Dein  Zaida  darft  dir!"  The 
boy  bent  his  head  again  and  shot  his  marble.  The 
little  woman  rushed  forward  and  seizing  him  by  the 
hand  attempted  to  drag  him  away  from  his  play- 
mates. The  boy  resisted  and  held  himself  back 
sulkily. 

"Why  don't  you  come  when  I  call  you?"  she 
asked  angrily  in  Yiddish.  "Didn't  I  tell  you 
your  grandfather  wants  you?"  And  the  little 
woman's  lips  tightened  while  the  nostrils  of  her 
aquiline  nose  trembled  and  dilated. 

"I'm  playing,  grandmother,"  the  lad  replied 
stubbornly.  "Let  me  play  a  little  longer,  and  I'll 
come  afterwards." 

"No,  you  must  come  now.  Come!"  And  she 
began  to  drag  him  along  with  her.  The  boy 
started  to  cry;  but  the  old  lady  took  no  notice  of 
his  tears.  "Be  a  good  boy,"  she  pleaded  a  little 
softeningly.  "You  haven't  learned  your  piece 
from  the  Gemara  to-day,  and  grandfather  is 
waiting  for  you." 

"I  don't  like  to  learn  pieces  from  the  Gemara" 
the  lad  wailed  softly,  "I'd  rather  play  at  marbles." 

"Nu!  Nu!  Nuf  Sei  a  gutes  kind  und  die  Malo- 
chim  willen  dir  etvos  schenkenf" 


Reb   Yankel  97 

"What  will  the  angels  give  me  if  I  learn  my 
piece?"  asked  the  boy  brightening. 

"You'll  see!" 

The  two  entered  the  dark  hallway  and  turned 
to  the  left  into  a  room  on  the  ground  floor  the 
window  of  which  faced  the  street.  By  the  window 
was  a  table,  covered  with  a  white  damask  cloth, 
at  which  sat  an  old  white-bearded  man  with  a 
large  brown-leaved  folio  spread  open  before  him. 
Rabbi  Jacob  Spero,  or  Reb  Yankel,  as  he  was 
affectionately  called  and  known  throughout  the 
Ghetto,  turned  expectantly  as  the  boy  showed 
himself  in  the  room,  and  holding  out  his  arms,  cried : 
"Ach!  mem  Michele!"  The  voice  in  which  the 
words  were  uttered  trembled  with  affectionate 
emotion.  The  boy  was  drawn  against  himself. 
He  ran  toward  his  grandfather  and  climbing  on 
to  the  broad  knees  threw  his  arms  round  the  old 
man's  neck.  The  two  embraced  each  other  silently 
the  elder  kissing  the  younger's  cheeks,  lips,  and 
eyes,  murmuring  the  while  endearing  phrases  of 
comfort  and  love  in  Yiddish,  in  Hebrew  and  in 
broken  English. 

"Let's  bring  the  table  into  the  middle  of  the 
room,"  said  the  little  woman,  "Michele  can  sit 
more  comfortably  then,"  and  she  looked  mean- 
ingly at  her  husband. 

Reb  Yankel  smiled  and  nodded  at  her  over  the 
boy's  reclining  head.  Aloud  he  said:  "Yes, 
Freyda,  put  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room." 
Rising,  he  lifted  the  boy  tenderly,  placed  him  on 
his  feet,  and  moved  the  table  so  that  the  rusty 
iron  gas  chandelier  suspended  from  the  ceiling 


98  The  Silver  Age 

was  directly  over  it.  The  window  affording  but  a 
poor  light  by  which  to  read  in  the  dim  interior, 
Reb  Yankel  lit  the  gas  and  covered  the  jet  with  a 
green  shade.  Placing  a  high-seated  child's  chair 
by  the  table  he  lifted  the  boy  into  it  and  moved 
the  open  book  towards  him.  Then,  smoothing  out 
the  pages  he  patted  the  boy's  head. 

"To-day,  Michele,  we  will  read  a  little  in  the 
treatise,  Berachoth.  Begin!"  He  turned  to  the 
fireplace  in  which  burned  a  meagre  coal  fire,  and 
leaning  his  back  against  the  mantelpiece,  pushed 
his  gold-rimmed  spectacles  on  to  his  high  and 
massive  brow,  and  placed  his  hands  beneath  the 
tails  of  his  worn  and  shining  frock-coat.  A  mag- 
nificent leonine  head  on  broad  shoulders  stood  out 
in  relief  against  the  shadowed  wall — a  head  Rem- 
brandt would  have  gone  miles  to  paint.  With  its 
dark  olive  skin,  its  long  flowing  silky  white  beard, 
its  mobile  lips  and  eager  coal-black  eyes,  it  was  as 
the  head  of  some  good,  wise  man  from  the 
East.  Yarmelke-covered  it  almost  touched  the 
smoke-browned  ceiling,  so  tall  was  he.  He  wanted 
but  the  robes  of  office,  and  the  place,  to  be  the 
high  priest  of  some  ancient  oracle.  He  preferred, 
surely,  to  be  Eli  waiting  on  the  little  God-given 
Samuel  before  him. 

The  boy's  head  was  bent  in  the  yellow  light 
over  the  leaves  of  the  folio,  his  little  forefinger 
moving  slowly  along  the  lines  of  the  black  squares 
of  the  Hebrew  characters,  as  he  chanted  the  words 
aloud  and  gave  their  meaning  in  Yiddish.  The 
little  sharp-featured  and  now  smiling  grand- 
mother was  standing  in  the  doorway  as  if  tasting 


Reb   Yankel  99 

the  fine  bouquet  of  the  beautiful  scene.  Her  eyes 
were  shining  with  delighted  appreciation.  She 
was  thinking  what  a  great  and  learned  man  their 
Michele  would  be  one  day — a  famous  Rabbi — a 
Gaonf  Raising  her  head  to  her  husband  she  saw 
him  nodding  at  her  with  a  meaningful  look  in  his 
eyes,  and  nodding  in  response,  she  turned,  and 
closed  the  door  behind  her,  leaving  master  and 
pupil  to  themselves  and  their  holy  task. 

For  several  minutes  the  boy's  fluent  chant  filled 
the  room.  Reb  Yankel,  his  eyes  now  closed,  stood 
leaning  against  the  mantelpiece,  rocking  his  body 
in  time  to  the  music  of  the  lad's  voice,  while  from 
his  mouth  came  an  accompanying  low  obligate  of 
the  words  of  the  treatise  as  he  followed  his  pupil's 
reading  from  memory.  He  knew  the  Gemara  by 
rote.  He  had  studied  it  and  dissected  its  text  and 
commentaries  all  his  life  long.  There  was  not  a 
word  that  held  not  for  him  some  lovely  charm, 
or  was  not  fraught  with  some  secret  meaning.  He 
was  one  of  the  few  Talmudic  scholars  to  whom 
even  very  learned  men  came  for  a  settlement  on 
some  nice  point  of  textual  criticism.  Had  he  not 
taught  the  Talmud  even  to  Dr.  Nathan  Adler,  the 
chief  Rabbi,  himself! 

The  boy's  chanting  ceased.  His  finger  stopped 
at  a  word.  It  was  evident  he  was  at  a  loss  for  its 
meaning.  Reb  Yankel  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled. 
The  boy  kept  on  looking  at  the  word,  repeating  it 
murmuringly  to  himself  as  if  trying  to  sense  out 
what  it  meant.  Finally,  he  gave  it  up  and,  lifting 
his  finger  from  the  page,  he  raised  his  head  showing 
a  tired  face  and  appealing  eyes. 


100  The  Silver  Age 

"I  am  so  tired,  grandfather;  can't  I  play  now?" 

"Just  a  little  piece  more,  my  dear  child,  just  a 
little  more.  Now,  where's  the  word?  Ah,  that's 
right;  that's  right!"  The  boy  had  repeated  the 
translation  the  old  man  had  supplied  him  with. 
Reb  Yankel  had  come  forward  and  was  bending 
over  the  volume,  his  hand  resting  lovingly  on  the 
boy's  shoulder  and  his  white  head  touching  caress- 
ingly the  curly  brown  one.  He  chanted  a  sentence 
gently,  the  boy  responding,  with  courage  born  of 
affection,  in  cheery  unison.  Suddenly  the  young 
voice  paused.  Something  had  dropped  with  a  loud 
flop  right  on  to  the  page  of  the  opened  folio,  and 
lay  there  within  a  few  inches  of  the  boy's  nose.  The 
lad  was  astounded. 

"Look!  Look!  Grandfather!"  he  cried,  pointing 
excitedly  to  a  bright,  glittering,  new  half-crown. 

"That  is  for  thee,  Michele;  take  it.  The  angels 
have  sent  it  to  thee  for  learning  the  Gemara" 

"For  me,  grandfather!"  exclaimed  the  child  in- 
credulously. 

Reb  Yankel  nodded,  smiling.  The  boy  seized 
the  coin  and  held  it  tightly  in  his  little  fist.  He 
looked  at  it  several  times  as  if  doubting  his  senses. 
His  face  became  now  transfigured  with  an  expres- 
sion of  awed  enthusiasm.  In  suppressed  excitement 
he  whispered  to  the  old  man: 

"Are  the  angels  listening,  grandfather?" 

"Surely,  my  child,  surely!  The  angels  are 
always  listening  to  what  we  do  and  say.  They 
write  down  in  a  book  what  we  have  done,  and 
what  we  think  even,  and  show  it  to  God.  That  is 
how  God  judges  us." 


Reb  Yankel   ;      /.  :      :;r-| 


"Shall  I  learn  some  more?"  asked  the  lad  softly. 

The  chanting  began  afresh  and  had  continued 
for  barely  three  minutes  before  another  coin  fell  on 
the  book,  and  another  new  half-crown  went  into 
the  little  fist  to  companion  the  one  already  there. 
The  boy's  excitement  grew.  Eagerly  he  chanted  in 
response  to  the  old  man's  lead.  The  words  meant 
nothing  to  him;  but  his  remarkable  memory  stored 
them  like  a  sponge  does  water.  Again  and  again, 
and  yet  again  the  coins  continued  to  drop  until  six 
had  fallen,  and  the  child's  hand  could  hardly  hold 
them  all. 

4 'Now  we  have  finished  for  to-day.  You  have 
done  well,"  and  the  old  man,  moving  the  volume 
aside,  kissed  the  lad  full  on  his  lips. 

"It  is  time  for  Maariv,  Michele.  Let  us  wash 
our  hands." 

Reb  Yankel  passed  through  a  doorway  at  the  far 
end  of  the  room,  and  came  back  with  a  basin  of 
water  and  a  towel.  The  two  laved  their  hands 
perfunctorily  and  dried  them.  The  old  man  then 
went  back  to  the  kitchen  taking  basin  and  towel 
with  him. 

Day  had,  by  this  time,  faded  into  a  dusky  twi- 
light glowing  with  the  sun's  golden  setting  some- 
where far  away  from  this  walled-in  corner  of  the 
Ghetto.  Through  the  muslin-curtained  window  no 
sky  was  visible,  only  a  shade-saturated  ruddy  glow. 
The  noises  in  the  street  had  ceased.  The  lights 
from  candles  and  lamps  threw  shadows  on  the 
blind-drawn  windows  of  the  neighboring  houses, 
their  glow  accenuating  the  oncoming  of  night.  The 
lamplighter  had  just  lit  the  street  lamp,  which 


HV*  The  Silver  Age 


sent  its  light  into  the  living-room  of  Reb  Yankel's 
house.  The  bell  of  the  muffin  man  was  heard  in 
the  distance  as  he  made  his  regular  evening  round. 
The  end  of  the  day  was  come. 

Reb  Yankel  returned  from  the  kitchen  and,  lift- 
ing the  boy  from  his  high  chair  where  he  sat 
clutching  his  heaven-sent  treasure  of  coins,  set 
him  down  by  the  window.  The  two  stood  to- 
gether, side  by  side,  with  faces  turned  upward  and 
eastward,  silent  for  several  moments,  in  the  grey 
darkness.  Then  was  heard  the  low  chant  of  the 
evening  prayer.  The  boy  knew  it  by  rote  and 
piped  in  soprano  unison  to  the  deep  bass  of  Reb 
Yankel's  sonorous  tones.  Thus  they  stood  and 
prayed — the  towering  white-bearded  velvet-capped 
man  and  the  tiny  curly-headed  lad  at  his  side — 
high  priest  and  acolyte  in  the  service  of  the  living 
God. 

They  thus  stood  and  prayed,  their  bodies  rocking 
and  swaying  now  in  quick  and  now  in  slow  time, 
for  some  five  or  six  minutes.  Then  both  simul- 
taneously took  two  short  paces  backward,  raised 
themselves  on  the  balls  of  their  feet,  came  down 
on  their  heels,  took  two  short  paces  forward,  again 
raised  themselves  and  again  came  down  on  their 
heels.  Then  a  profound  bow  to  the  east,  and  the 
evening  prayer  was  over. 

On  turning  to  the  light  they  saw  the  door  silently 
open  and  the  tiny,  beady-eyed  grandmother  enter, 
her  face  aglow  with  excitement — her  lips  wreathed 
in  a  smile  of  triumph. 

"Nu,  have  you  learnt  your  piece  from  the 
Gemara"  she  asked  the  boy. 


Reb   Yankel  103 

"Oh,  grandmother,  look  what  the  angels  sent 
me!"  The  lad's  face  was  a  vision  of  beatific  de- 
light, as  he  held  out  his  hands  with  the  half- 
crowns  glittering  in  the  palms. 

"Nu,  Michele,  what  did  I  tell  you?  Did  I  not 
say  to  you  the  angels  would  give  you  something? 
Now,  you  see!" 

"Yes,  yes,  you  did  say  it.  I'm  going  to  buy  a 
big  gun  like  Mendel  der  Soldat  has,  and  I'll  have 
such  a  grand  time  with  the  boys.  We'll  play  at 
soldiers !" 

"Ah,  but  you  must  not  tell  the  boys  how  you 
got  the  money.  They  won't  understand  if  you  say 
the  angels  sent  it  to  you,  they  don't  learn  the 
Gemara  like  you  do." 

Reb  Yankel  had  been  looking  on  smiling.  "We 
will  go  together  to  Cheapside,  on  the  top  of  the 
big  omnibus.  And  we'll  look  in  at  the  windows 
of  the  fine  big  shops,  and  I'll  lift  you  on  my  shoul- 
der and  you'll  see  the  wonderful  clock  with  the  two 
big  iron  men  striking  twelve." 

"Oh,  grandfather,  I  do  want  to  see  that  clock. 
It  must  be  a  wonderful  clock!" 

"Well,  we  will  go  to-morrow  morning.  And  now, 
Freyda,  let  us  have  our  supper.  We  have  already 
said  Maariv." 

The  frugal  meal,  soon  prepared  and  partaken  of, 
was  followed  by  the  prayer  of  thanksgiving,  after 
which  the  boy  was  permitted  to  play  with  his 
half-crowns  on  the  hearthrug  before  the  fire  while 
the  grandmother  busied  herself  in  the  kitchen  with 
the  dishes,  and  Reb  Yankel  sat  down  to  write  a 
letter.  Her  duties  finished,  the  little  woman  re- 


104  The  Silver  Age 

turned  and  took  her  place  on  a  stool  near  the  fire- 
place with  her  knitting.  For  a  time  nothing  was 
heard  but  the  clicking  of  the  knitting  needles,  the 
clinking  of  the  coins  and  the  scratching  of  the 
quill  pen.  Then  the  clinking  and  the  clicking 
ceased.  The  little  woman  rose  silently  and  tip- 
toed over  to  her  husband. 

"Er  schloft,"  she  whispered  to  him,  pointing  to 
the  boy  who  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  rug  with  the 
coins  tightly  clenched  in  his  little  fists. 

Reb  Yankel  laid  his  pen  in  the  long  neck  of  the 
ink-bottle,  rose,  and  stooping  over  the  sleeping 
form,  gently  extracted  the  coins  from  the  lad's 
hands  and  handed  them  to  his  wife  Then  ten- 
derly lifting  the  boy  he  held  him  in  his  arms  as 
he  waited  for  his  wife  to  light  a  candle. 

Up  a  flight  of  creaking  stairs  which  led  from 
the  outer  dark  hall  the  two  trod  softly  until  they 
reached  the  back-room — the  only  bedroom  in  the 
house  other  than  their  own.  Here  the  boy  was 
undressed  and  then  gently  laid  and  carefully  cov- 
ered in  a  small  wooden  bed.  The  angel-sent  coins 
were  embedded  in  a  pillow  by  the  side  of  the 
sleeping  lad.  The  grandmother  stood  on  one  side 
holding  aloft  the  lighted  candle  which  shed  a 
misty  glow  over  the  pillowed  head  with  its  mass 
of  short  brown  curls  falling  away  from  a  broad 
square  forehead.  On  the  other  side  the  tall  black 
figure  of  the  grandfather,  his  white-bearded  head 
raised  upward  and  his  eyes  closed  in  the  act  of  a 
prayer.  His  lips  were  silently  shaping  the  words 
which  called  on  the  God  of  Israel  to  keep  watch 
and  ward  over  his  beloved  who  was  to  be  dedicated 


Reb   Yankel  105 

to  the  service  of  Jehovah.  "He  that  dwelleth  in 
the  shelter  of  the  Most  High  abideth  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Almighty." 

"Now,  my  dear,  go  and  rest  in  thy  bed."  The 
old  couple  were  in  the  living-room  again.  "I  must 
finish  my  letter  to  Reb  Jerusha  Jerushalmin." 

A  pained  expression  came  into  the  wife's  eyes 
and  over  her  yellow,  wizened  face.  She  shivered 
at  the  word  Jerushalmin,  and  was  about  to  make  an 
angry  reply  when  Reb  Yankel  took  her  head  be- 
tween his  hands  and,  stooping,  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead : 

"Nu,  Nu,  Nu"  he  murmured  soothingly.  "Sei  a 
gutes  kind.  Go  to  bed,  my  dear  one,  and  do  not 
forget  to  put  the  carpet  over  the  hole  in  the  floor 
of  our  bedroom,  so  that  Michele  shall  not  see  the 
opening  in  the  ceiling  there." 


II 

REB  YANKEL  sat  in  his  armchair  by  the  window 
of  his  living-room,  reading.  The  hour  was  late — 
long  past  midnight — and  the  oil  in  the  glass  reser- 
voir of  the  lamp  showed  three  parts  consumed. 
The  light  from  the  shaded  lamp  shone  full  on  the 
pages  of  the  folio,  leaving  the  rest  of  the  room 
deep  in  shadows.  On  the  wall  behind  him  hung 
an  old  engraving,  in  a  yellow  bird's-eye  maple 
frame,  of  a  view  of  the  Kocil  Maarovi,  or  western 
wall  of  the  Temple  of  Jerusalem,  the  last  remains 
of  that  city's  ancient  glory.  The  picture  showed 


io6  The  Silver  Ag 

a  number  of  talith-covered  worshippers  praying  be- 
fore the  ruin.  A  coal-fire  flamed  brightly  in  the 
grate,  for  the  early  October  night  was  sharp  and 
frosty,  and  a  smoke-blackened  tin  coffee-pot  stood 
on  the  hob. 

Reb  Yankcl's  reading  suddenly  ceased;  he 
leaned  forward  in  a  listening  attitude.  Shuffling 
steps  echoed  in  the  court  without  and  became  more 
distinct  as  they  approached  the  house.  The  sound 
ceased,  and  then  three  sharp  taps  on  the  window 
pane  broke  the  stillness.  Immediately  Reb  Yankel 
raised  his  hand,  so  that  the  light  from  the  lamp 
threw  its  shadow  on  the  muslin  curtain,  and 
bending  the  thumb  against  the  palm  held  the  four 
fingers  straight  up  close  together.  A  minute  later 
the  door  of  the  room  opened  and  there  entered  a 
tall,  black-bearded  man  wearing  a  red  fez  on  his 
head.  He  stood  there  for  a  moment,  with  flowing 
dark  green  robe  depending  from  his  shoulders  and 
almost  covering  his  thick-soled  sandals.  Reb  Yankel 
rose  hurriedly  and  extending  his  right  hand,  said: 

"Sholem  Alaichem,  Reb  Jerusha." 

"Alaichem  Sholem,  Reb  Yankel,"  came  back  in 
deep  sonorous  tones  as  the  two  clasped  hands  in 
a  tight  grip. 

"It  is  a  cold  night.  Sit  down  by  the  fire,  Reb 
Jerusha."  Reb  Yankel  spoke,  not  in  Yiddish  but 
in  Hebrew.  The  visitor  took  a  chair  and  began 
warming  and  rubbing  his  hands  near  the  flames. 

"Thou  didst  receive  my  letter,  then?"  asked  Reb 
Yankel. 

The  visitor  nodded,  and  a  light  shone  from  his 
eyes  through  the  deep  shadow  in  which  he  sat.  The 


Reb   Yankel  107 

flames  from  the  fire  were  reflected  from  his  eyeballs 
and  burnished  the  copper-colored  skin  of  his  face 
giving  the  head  a  demon-like  appearance. 

"Nu?"  asked  Red  Yankel. 

"Thy  wife,  sleepeth  she?" 

Reb  Yankel  nodded.  The  visitor  spoke  more 
freely. 

"Thy  friends  are  awaiting  thee  in  Jerusalem.  I 
told  them  of  thy  desire  to  come  and  live  with  us, 
and  they  rejoiced  exceeding  at  the  news.  We  are 
not  wealthy,  and  the  Turk  oppresseth  us,  taxing  us 
heavily,  but  what  we  have  we  will  gladly  share 
with  thee.  The  land  hath  sore  need  of  such  as 
thou,  Reb  Yankel." 

"Nay,  I  will  not  be  a  charge  on  thee  and  thy 
brethren.  Are  there  many  young  people — young 
men  and  women,  I  mean — abiding  there?" 

"Some  ten  or  twelve  score,  all  laboring  indus- 
triously." 

"That  is  well.    Are  they  content  to  abide  there?" 

"That  is  my  fear.  The  hard  conditions  under 
which  they  live  are  making  them  restive.  They 
left  comfortable  homes,  attracted  by  the  glamour  of 
Eretz  Yisrael.  They  have  been  disappointed  by  the 
reality.  It  is  not  easy,  therefore,  to  keep  the  flame 
of  enthusiasm  burning  in  their  breasts.  We  need 
a  leader,  Reb  Yankel,  one  who  will  inspire  us 
with  living  words  of  hope  and  encourage  us  by  his 
example." 

"I  am  too  old  for  that  service,  Reb  Jerusha;  but 
I  may  find  you  such  a  leader.  Are  there  schools 
there  in  which  I  may  teach?"  The  old  man  asked 
the  question  eagerly. 


'io8  The  Silver  Age 

"There  is  a  good  Beth  Hamidresh;  but  the  schol- 
ars are  few,  for  the  country  is  not  peopled  with 
many  of  our  faith.  Of  late  years,  however,  some 
dozen  families  have  come  from  Russia  to  settle 
there,  but  they  find  it  hard  to  subsist.  The  land 
is  barren  for  lack  of  water  and  the  means  to  culti- 
vate it.  Three  of  the  families  have  returned  to 
Russia." 

uAnd  yet  it  was  once  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and 
honey!"  exclaimed  Reb  Yankel  in  tearful  tones. 
"How  doth  the  city  sit  solitary,  that  was  full  of 
people!"  he  quoted.  "She  that  was  great  among 
the  nations  and  priceless  among  the  provinces,  how 
is  she  become  tributary!"  The  old  man's  voice 
took  on  the  wail  of  a  dirge-like  chant,  and  died 
away  with  the  last  word. 

"She  sleepeth  sore  in  the  night,"  responded  the 
Jerushalmin,  sobbing  in  the  same  tone,  "and  her 
tears  are  on  her  cheeks!  Among  all  her  lovers  she 
hath  none  to  comfort  her!  All  her  friends  have 
dealt  treacherously  with  her,  they  are  become  her 


enemies." 


"Nay,  not  so,  Reb  Jerusha.  She  has  us.  We 
will  bring  back  her  ancient  glory.  We  will  rebuild 
the  Temple,  and  Zion's  hills  shall  once  again  re- 
sound with  the  music  of  the  psaltery  and  tabor 
and  the  singing  of  psalms.  Hear,  thou !  I  have 
a  grandson,  a  rare  lad.  A  brain !  And  a  soul, 
ah, — sugar-sweet!  I  am  teaching  him  and  instruct- 
ing him  in  the  ways  of  righteousness.  I  will  make 
a  home  for  him  in  Jerusalem.  I  will  send  for  him 
and  he  shall  follow  me  and  carry  on  our  holy 
work.  He  shall  marry  thy  daughter,  Rebecca,  Reb 


Reb   Yankel  109 

Jerusha,  and  they  will  bear  many  children  for 
Zion's  sake." 

The  old  man's  face  radiated  in  the  enthusiasm 
aroused  in  him  by  his  own  words.  He  raised  his 
arms  upward,  the  palms  outspread!  "Hear  O 
Israel,  the  Lord  our  God  the  Lord  is  One."  With 
the  utterance  of  the  last  word  Reb  Yankel's  eyes 
shut  tightly  and  his  fists  clenched. 

"I  am  content,  Reb  Yankel,  but  we  are  poor — 
very  poor." 

"I  have  enough  to  last  for  awhile.  I  have  been 
saving  for  many  years  for  this  blessed  time.  My 
wife  shall  follow  me,  later,  when  our  home  is  ready. 
She  will  bring  my  Michele  with  her.  And  I  can 
earn  a  little — enough,  perhaps,  for  our  simple 
wants — by  teaching.  I  have  taught  many  already." 

"When  dost  thou  meditate  to  depart?  I  ask, 
because  in  twenty  days  from  now  I  return  with  the 
five  Jerushalmin  whom  our  brethren  sent  here  to 
collect  money  for  the  support  of  the  Shool  and  the 
Beth  Hamidresh.  And  it  would  rejoice  us  to  have 
thy  company  on  our  journey." 

"I  know  of  whom  thou  speakest.  I  have  met 
them.  It  may  be  that  I  will  accompany  thee  and 
them." 

"What  is  there  to  withhold  thee?" 

"A  family  matter.  My  youngest  daughter  is 
causing  me  great  distress  of  heart.  She  desires  to 
marry  a  man  who  is  a  shame  to  our  religion  and 


our  race." 


"I  mourn  with  thee,  Reb  Yankel."  The  Jerusha- 
lmin spoke  with  evident  deep  feeling.  "I  have 
known  that  sorrow  also." 


Ho  The  Silver  Age 

"He  goeth  not  in  the  ways  of  our  people,  and 
doth  not  keep  holy  the  Sabbath  day.  He  is  un- 
clean and  runneth  after  strange  women.  That  I 
should  live  to  see  this  thing!  The  child  will  bring 
my  grey  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the  grave.  And  I  have 
loved  her  so  dearly."  The  old  man  bent  his  head 
on  his  hand  to  hide  the  tears  that  forced  themselves 
from  his  eyelids. 

"Hast  thou  tried  her  with  another?"  asked  Rabbi 
Jerusha. 

"I  have.  A  handsome,  fine  young  man;  of  good 
family  and  good  means,  who  is  most  willing  to 
make  her  his  wife.  But  she  will  not  even  speak 
with  him.  The  other  has  bewitched  her.  I  can- 
not understand  it,  and  he  is  not  worthy  to  tie  the 
shoe  lace  of  the  one  I  have  brought  her.  I  shall 
try  again  to  persuade  her.  If  she  listen  to  me,  I 
must  wait  until  the  wedding  is  over.  If  her  heart 
be  still  hardened  against  me  and  she  persists,  I 
will  go  to  Jerusalem  with  thee  and  thy  friends. 
Here  is  my  hand  upon  it." 

The  two  hands  closed  together  in  a  tight  clasp. 

"I  shall  expect  thee  then,  for  I  doubt  she  will 
be  moved.  Thou  knowest  the  ways  of  women  when 
once  they  have  set  their  hearts  on  a  man." 

Reb  Yankel  smiled  plaintively  at  his  friend's 
words. 

"The  Lord  our  God  will  be  good  to  me,"  he 
said;  "my  life  is  in  His  hands." 

The  Jerushalmin  bowed  his  head.  Raising  it  he 
stretched  out  his  hand.  "I  must  go,"  he  said;  "the 
hour  is  late,  and  I  have  far  to  travel.  Peace  be 
with  thee." 


Reb   Yankel  in 

"And  with  thee  be  peace,"  was  the  reply. 

Reb  Yankel  accompanied  Reb  Jerusha  to  the 
door  and  bolted  it  after  him.  The  shuffling  steps 
died  away  in  the  distance  as  the  old  man  reentered 
the  room  and  sat  down  again  before  his  book.  He 
looked  very  worn  and  tired.  Resting  his  forehead 
on  both  hands  he  stared  blankly  at  the  open  page. 
The  lamp's  wick  began  to  sputter  and  crackle;  the 
oil  in  the  reservoir  had  given  out,  leaving  the  room 
in  darkness  except  for  the  flickering  light  from  the 
fire-grate.  Utter  silence  held  the  room  in  a  black 
embrace.  Reb  Yankel  continued  to  sit,  bowed  over 
his  book,  the  outline  of  his  form  barely  distinguish- 
able in  the  fiful  glimmers.  He  sat  thus  for  a 
seeming  long  time;  then  the  sound  of  feet  walking 
came  from  the  room  overhead;  a  scraping  of  chairs 
and  the  creak  of  a  door  opening,  and  then  the 
patter  of  slippers.  Reb  Yankel  still  sat  bowed  over 
his  book. 

A  coal  dropped  into  the  red  bed  of  the  fire  and 
a  bright,  fresh  flame  flared.  The  light  revealed  a 
little  pale-faced  woman  in  the  doorway.  She  had 
thrown  a  wrapper  hastily  over  her  form,  and  a 
small  shawl  was  tied  over  her  head  beneath  her 
chin.  The  pupils  of  her  eyes  were  dilated  from 
fear  and  the  muscles  of  her  face  quivered.  The 
flame  went  out  again  and  darkness  filled  the  room. 

"Yankel!  Yankel!  Art  thou  here?"  The  words 
came  in  tense  whispers.  The  old  man  still  sat 
bowed  over  his  book. 

"Yankele !  Yankele !"  The  voice  rose  to  a  cry.  Reb 
Yankel  looked  up  startled.  He  rose  hurriedly  and 


112  The  Silver  Age 

going  to  the  door  caught  the  little  woman  by  the 
hand. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  Freyda?"  he  cried. 
"Why  are  you  not  in  bed?" 

"Ait  Yankel,  I  was  awakened  by  some  one  walk- 
ing in  the  street  and  found  you  were  not  with  me. 
I  waited  some  time,  then  I  became  frightened,  and 
so  I  came  to  see  what  was  keeping  you." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  you  are  shivering.  Come  inside 
and  sit  by  the  fire.  It  is  a  very  cold  night  Wait, 
I  will  light  the  candles."  He  led  her  to  a  seat 
by  the  fireplace  and  stirred  the  coals  into  a  bright 
flame.  Then  striking  a  match  from  a  box  on  the 
mantelpiece  he  lit  three  candles  in  an  old  silver 
seven-branched  candelabra  on  a  table  opposite  the 
window.  Their  flames  sent  a  cheering  comfort 
through  the  room.  The  old  man  drew  a  chair  near 
the  fire  and  sat  with  one  arm  round  the  little  woman's 
shoulder. 

"Why  do  you  sit  up,  Yankel?  I  am  always 
speaking  to  you  about  it,  and  you  never  heed  my 
words." 

"I  cannot  sleep  of  late,  Freyda.  My  heart  is 
heavy  about  our  daughter.  She  knows  not  the  evil 
she  is  storing  up  for  herself  in  the  future." 

"What  good  will  your  worry  do?  She  will  go 
her  own  way,  now  that  she  is  no  longer  dependent 
on  us.  Forgive  her,  and  do  not  harden  thy  heart 
against  her.  Where  a  woman's  heart  is  there  is 
her  life." 

"I  know  it;  I  know  it.  And  yet  I  must  speak. 
For  I  see  a  vision  before  me  of  evil  coming  to  her. 
She  will  know  years  of  sorrow  and  suffering  with  the 


Reb   Yankel  113 

man  she  has  chosen.  He  is  evil  in  his  heart  and 
evil  in  his  life." 

"Thou  art  not  thyself,  Yankel,  to-night.  Who 
was  it  that  passed  along  the  street  just  now?  Did 
one  come  to  see  you?" 

"Yes,  Reb  Jerusha." 

"The  Jerushalmin !"  The  word  left  her  lips  in 
a  scream.  "I  felt  it!  I  felt  it!  Al!  How  I 
hate  him!  A  cholera  on  him!  He  is  taking  you 
from  me!  You  will  leave  me  and  our  Michele; 
and  I'll  never  see  you  again.  We  shall  lie  buried, 
our  graves  seas  apart." 

The  little  woman  began  to  rock  herself  to  and 
fro,  beating  her  breast  with  her  clenched  hand. 
Tears  were  streaming  from  her  eyes  and  her  breath 
came  and  went  in  hysterical  sobs. 

"My  dear  one,  my  dear  one!"  the  old  man 
murmured  brokenly,  caressing  her  head  with  his 
hand,  "Do  not  distress  thyself  needlessly.  The 
Lord  our  God  and  the  God  of  our  fathers  will  not 
forget  us.  He  is  our  shepherd  and  will  bring  us  to 
lie  down  in  green  pastures,  and  lead  us  beside  still 


waters." 


"Oh,  I  know,  I  know  God  is  good.  But  leave 
me  not  alone,  Yankele,  leave  me  not  alone;  I  can 
trust  in  the  Almighty  better  when  you  are  with 


me." 


"It  will  be  but  for  a  short  time.  I  cannot  stay 
and  witness  this  shame  our  daughter  is  bringing  on 
my  head.  Moreover,  I  hear  a  voice  calling  me,  by 
night  and  by  day.  Zion  needs  me.  The  people 
there  await  me.  I  go  first,  but  you  will  follow.  I 
shall  but  prepare  a  place  for  you — you  and  Michele. 


114  The  Silver  Age 

Then  shall  you  two  come  out  to  me  together,  and 
we  shall  live  the  rest  of  our  days  in  joyfulness.  And 
our  grandson  shall  grow  up  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord, 
a  learned  rabbi  and  a  leader  in  Israel." 

"Why  can  you  not  do  this  in  England?"  She 
looked  up  at  her  husband  with  piteous  pleading  in 
her  tear-filled  eyes. 

"England!  What  can  a  poor  man  like  me  do 
in  England?  Here  I  am  as  one  crying  in  the 
wilderness.  Here,  it  is  money,  money,  money! 
In  this  land  nothing  can  be  done  without  money; 
and  I  have  no  money.  How  will  our  Michele 
grow  up  in  the  midst  of  these  Philistines,  in  this 
land  where  the  word  of  the  Torah  counts  as  a  pea 
in  comparison  with  the  gold  sovereign?  See  how 
the  other  children  of  Israel  are  growing  up.  What 
are  they?  Swindlers  and  ignorant  boors!  Even 
the  rabbis  are  hypocrites  and  speak  false  things  for 
money.  Learning  and  piety  are  of  no  value  here. 
The  people  have  given  themselves  up  to  seeking  after 
vain  things.  They  bow  down  before  the  Golden 
Calf,  and  have  forgotten  the  God  of  their  fathers." 

"Can  you  better  it  by  going  away  to  Eretz 
Yisrael?  There  is  no  land  of  Israel  now.  It  is 
become  a  wilderness.  Here  we  have  been  happy 
together  and  brought  our  children  up  in  decency. 
We  still  have  them  and  our  friends  also." 

"Children!  Friends!  Some  children  do  not  care 
if  they  bring  us  to  shame.  And  our  friends,  where 
are  they?  Will  they  feed  us  when  we  are  hungry? 
Yes,  if  we  are  willing  to  beg  charity  of  them.  WTill 
they  give  us  a  place  to  rest  our  heads,  if  we  are  in 
want?  Yes,  if  we  bow  down  before  them.  But  I 


Reb   Yankel  115 

will  not  beg  from  any  man,  nor  will  I  bend  the 
knee  to  him.  When  I  beg  and  bow  down  it  is  to 
God  alone." 

"You  have  never  wanted  bread  and  a  roof  since 
we  lived  here,  and  we  have  never  begged.  Why 
should  you  fear  now?" 

"We  are  no  longer  young,  Freyda.  There  is  no 
room  in  this  country  for  old  people.  The  younger 
generation  is  pushing  us  to  the  wall.  Even  our 
own  children  set  us  at  naught.  A  people  whose 
children  no  longer  honor  their  fathers  and  their 
mothers  is  a  people  destined  to  destruction.  And 
I  fear  for  our  own  people.  The  time  is  come, 
Freyda,  for  some  one  to  make  a  move  Zionward. 
Why  should  not  I  be  that  one?  If  Zion  be  not 
re-established  then  will  the  religion  of  the  Jews 
die  out  in  the  world.  Palestine  and  Judaism  are 
the  strands  of  one  golden  rope  binding  us  to  the 
living  God.  Without  our  faith,  the  land  is  a  wil- 
derness; with  our  faith,  it  will  once  more  be  a  land 
flowing  with  milk  and  honey.  Without  Palestine, 
the  children  of  Israel  are  wanderers  over  the  face 
of  the  earth;  mocked  at  and  despised  wherever 
they  go;  hated  and  persecuted  as  a  landless  people 
and  as  having  no  part  in  the  affairs  of  the  world. 
With  Palestine  the  Jew  will  regain  the  dignity  of 
his  nationality;  he  will  take  his  rightful  place 
among  the  nations;  he  will  be  the  soldier  in  the 
army  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  the  standard  bearer 
of  Truth  and  Faith.  This  is  what  he  was,  and 
that  he  will  become  again.  We  are  a  peculiar 
people;  chosen  by  God  from  among  all  nations  of 
the  earth  to  declare  Him  and  to  establish  His  cove- 


ii6  The  Silver  Age 

nant.  We  must  become  a  nation  again  in  order 
that  the  word  of  the  living  God  shall  be  acknowl- 
edged and  righteousness  reign  on  earth." 

Reb  Yankel's  eyes  were  glowing  and  beads  of 
perspiration  stood  out  on  his  forehead.  He  was 
breathing  heavily  from  his  self-aroused  enthusiasm. 
"Ach,  Yankele,  Yankele,"  gently  answered  his 
wife,  "you  are  a  beautiful  dreamer,  and  you  have 
a  beautiful  soul.  God  will  reward  you  in  His 
own  good  time.  But,  meanwhile,  what  is  to  be- 
come of  me  and  the  child?  How  are  we  to  live 
if  you  go  away  to  Jerusalem?" 

"I  have  seen  to  that.  I  shall  leave  enough 
money  to  keep  you  comfortably  until  I  send  for 
you.  It  will  take  but  a  few  months,  and  I  shall 
have  everything  ready.  Reb  Jerusha  tells  me  I 
shall  be  able  to  teach  there,  and  there  is  money 
coming  in  to  keep  up  the  Beth  Hamidresh.  So  we 
shall  not  want.  We  shall  have  a  little  garden  to 
grow  things  in;  and  you  can  keep  some  hens  and 
a  cow,  just  like  it  was  in  Russia.  You  remember, 
FreyJa,  eh?" 

The  frail  old  woman  sighed,  laid  her  head 
against  her  husband's  breast  and  held  his  hands, 
caressing  them  with  her  own  worn  and  calloused 
housewife's  palms. 

"It  will  be  pleasant,  very  pleasant,  Yankele,"  she 
murmured  drowsily.  "Men  were  born  for  labor 
and  women  for  suffering.  Let  it  be  then  as  thou 
sayest,  and  God's  will  be  done." 

The  silver  dawn  of  the  October  morning  spread 
itself  slowly  through  the  shadows  of  the  room.  It 


Reb   Yankel  117 

dissolved  the  darkness  within  as  by  a  magical  chem- 
istry, and  precipitated  the  figures  of  Reb  Yankel 
and  his  wife  asleep,  sitting  in  their  chairs.  One 
arm  of  the  old  man  was  round  his  wife's  shoulders, 
and  the  hand  of  the  other  lay  clasped  in  both  of 
hers  as  she  sat  with  her  head  on  his  breast.  The 
candles  had  long  since  burnt  out;  the  fire  had  died 
down  to  ?.  few  ash-coated  embers.  Stronger  and 
stronger  grew  the  daylight  until  a  red  shaft  from 
the  sun  itself,  reflected  from  some  window  without, 
shot  into  the  room  and  burnished  the  picture  of 
the  Temple  ruins  hanging  on  the  wall,  from  which 
it  was  again  reflected  full  on  to  the  smiling  face  of 
Reb  Yankel  dreaming  of  a  golden-gated  Jerusalem. 

"Grandfather!  Grandmother!"  The  door  flew 
open  and  Michael  in  a  white  night-shirt,  rushed 
bare-foot  into  the  room.  He  stopped  suddenly, 
and  gazed  in  open-eyed  wonder  at  the  two  sleep- 
ing figures  before  the  fire-grate.  Then  he  became 
frightened.  The  scene  was  bewildering  in  its 
strangeness.  "Grandfather !  Grandmother!"  he 
cried  again  in  a  shrill,  piercing  voice.  The  two 
awoke  with  a  start.  Reb  Yankel  was  the  first  to 
realize  the  situation.  He  rose  quickly,  shook  him- 
self, rubbed  his  eyes,  and  then  with  a  rich,  happy 
laugh,  ran  forward  and  caught  the  boy  in  his 
arms. 

"What  are  you  doing  up  so  early,  you  little 
rascal,  eh?"  he  asked  chuckling. 

"But,  Michele!"  cried  the  old  woman,  "how 
did  you  get  out  of  your  room?  I  locked  you  in 
last  night." 


Ii8  The  Silver  Age 

The  boy  smiled  at  her  over  his  grandfather's 
shoulder. 

"I  knocked  so  hard  at  the  door  to  make  you 
hear  me,  and  you  didn't  come.  And  I  shouted  out 
loud  and  nobody  heard  me.  I  was  frightened  to  be 
locked  in ;  so  I  opened  the  window  and  jumped 
down  into  the  backyard." 

"May  the  dear  God  help  us!  And  didn't  you 
break  your  legs?"  The  grandmother  began  feel- 
ing his  limbs  with  eager  searching  hands.  "Yankel, 
put  him  down  and  see  if  he  is  able  to  walk." 

"I'm  all  right,  grandmother,  only  my  knee  hurts 
a  little,  that's  all." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing?" 

"Ah,  my  child,"  said  the  old  man  cuddling  the 
lad  against  his  breast,  "it  is  a  miracle  thou  wast 
not  killed.  It  is  a  sign  that  thou  wilt  live  to  be 
a  great  man.  But  do  not  do  it  again,  it  is  a  very 
dangerous  thing  to  do.  Come,  let  us  wash  our- 
selves and  say  our  prayers,  while  thy  grandmother 
gets  the  breakfast  ready." 


Ill 

IT  was  the  night  of  full  moon  in  the  month  of 
Heshvan,  the  night  preceding  the  morning  on  which 
Reb  Yankel  was  to  take  ship  for  Jerusalem.  The 
living-room  in  the  house  in  New  Street  was  lit  up 
with  the  lights  from  the  wax  candles  in  the  silver 
candelabra.  In  the  room  were  seated  Reb  Yankel, 
his  wife  with  the  boy,  Michael,  in  her  lap,  and 
six  swarthy  faced,  dark-bearded  Orientals  in  flow- 
ing robes  of  various  colors,  some  of  whom  wore 


Reb  Yankel  119 

the  red  fez  alone  and  others  a  small  white  tur- 
ban encircling  the  fez.  The  remains  of  a  meal, 
hastily  gathered  together  and  placed  aside,  lay  on  a 
table  by  the  wall  nearest  the  entrance  door.  A  fire 
blazed  brightly  in  the  grate  and  threw  its  orange- 
red  glow  over  the  empty  space  of  wooden  flooring  in 
the  centre  of  the  room.  On  the  table  near  the 
window  stood  a  highly  polished  brass  samovar,  and 
a  number  of  glass  tumblers  partly  filled  with  tea 
and  slices  of  lemon.  Two  of  the  Jerushalmin  held 
tumblers  filled  with  the  beverage  in  their  hands, 
and  were  sipping  it  through  a  piece  of  loaf-sugar  in 
the  mouth,  cooling  the  liquid  with  their  blowing 
breaths  before  each  sip. 

A  general  conversation  was  in  progress;  voices 
crossed  in  every  direction,  now  loud,  now  low;  now 
in  earnest  tones,  now  in  waves  of  laughter.  Faces 
flushed  and  eyes  glowed  in  the  candle-light.  In 
one  corner  two  were  in  the  midst  of  an  excited 
discussion,  emphasizing  their  arguments  with  vehe- 
ment gesticulations  and  jerkings  of  beards.  The 
grandmother  sat  silent  on  a  low  three-legged  stool 
in  the  far  corner  of  the  fireside,  her  grandson,  whom 
she  embraced  tightly,  on  her  knees.  Her  face 
showed  corpse-like  and  drawn  in  the  dusky  yellow 
light;  her  lips  were  shut  close,  creasing  in  numerous 
tiny  wrinkles  the  skin  about  her  mouth.  She  kept 
glancing  anxiously  like  a  frightened  sparrow,  from 
one  to  the  other  of  the  strangely  clad  men,  and 
from  them  to  her  husband  who  sat  in  his  accus- 
tomed seat  by  the  window  in  earnest  converse  with 
Rabbi  Jerusha.  His  overcoat  was  thrown  over 
the  back  of  his  chair,  and  his  tall  silk  hat  lay  on  the 


120  The  Silver  Age 

table  before  him.  The  child  on  the  old  woman's 
knees  was  trying  hard  to  keep  his  eyes  from 
closing.  Occasionally  his  head  would  fall  forward 
with  the  weight  of  sleep,  and  then  his  grandmother 
would  lift  him  in  a  more  comfortable  upright 
position  and  murmur  to  him,  "Not  yet,  Michele; 
just  a  little  while  longer." 

An  ancient,  yellow-faced,  circular  shaped  clock, 
with  chain  and  weights,  whirred  hoarsely  and  began 
striking  the  hour  on  a  cracked  bell.  It  struck  ten 
times.  As  the  last  stroke  died  away  the  conversa- 
tion ceased,  and  a  silence  filled  the  room.  Reb 
Yankel  rose  and  crossed  over  to  where  his  wife 
was  sitting.  He  bent  toward  her  and,  stroking 
affectionately  her  white  kerchiefed  head,  he  said  in 
a  low  voice:  "Give  me  the  child,  Freyda." 

The  old  woman  lifted  the  boy  and  handed  him 
to  her  husband.  Reb  Yankel  fixed  him  comfortably 
in  the  crook  of  his  left  arm  and  stepped  into  the 
middle  of  the  room.  Immediately  the  six  long- 
robed,  fez-capped  Orientals  rose  and  formed  a 
wide  circle  about  him. 

A  strange,  weird  picture  they  made — the  tall 
old  man  in  black  with  his  white  beard  flowing 
down  his  breast;  the  little  white,  night-gowned  child 
held  aloft  in  his  arms;  the  six  dark-skinned,  black- 
bearded  Jerushalmin,  in  their  long  robes,  the  bent 
witch-like  figure  of  the  old  woman  on  her  stool 
by  the  fireside;  and  all  in  the  chiaroscuro  of  the 
candle-light,  their  shadows  on  the  walls  and  ceil- 
ing, blotting  out  what  light  had  lately  been  re- 
flected from  them.  In  the  silence  and  semi-dark- 
ness the  scene  might  have  been  taken  for  some 


Reb   Yankel  121 

ritual  of  Orphic  mystery  among  the  Eleusinian 
rocks. 

Suddenly,  as  though  with  one  voice,  came  from 
all  the  words  in  Hebrew: 

"Hear,  O  Israel:  the  Lord  Our  God,  The 
Lord  is  One! 

So  loud  was  the  sound  that  it  filled  the  room  and 
sent  the  candle  flames  flickering  spasmodically. 
The  lad  had  lifted  up  his  voice  with  the  rest. 

"And  thou  shall  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with 
all  thy  heart,  and  with  all  thy  soul,  and  with 
all  thy  might." 

Again  the  room  echoed  and  reechoed,  and  again 
could  be  heard  the  piping  notes  of  the  child  re- 
peating the  words  of  the  prayer.  Then  followed 
a  low  murmur  of  praying  from  all,  and  then  a 
silence.  The  silence  was  broken  by  the  boy's  sing- 
ing. He  was  chanting  the  ninety-first  psalm: 

"He  that  dwelleth  in  the  shelter  of  the 
Most  High,  abideth  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Almighty.  I  say  of  the  Lord,  He  is  my  refuge 
and  my  fortress,  my  God  in  whom  I  trust. 
For  He  shall  deliver  thee  from  the  snare  of  the 
fowler,  and  from  the  noisome  pestilence.  He 
shall  cover  thee  with  His  pinions,  and  under 
his  wings  shall  thou  take  refuge;  His  truth 
shall  be  a  shield  and  a  buckler.  .  .  . " 

The  child's  voice  had  barely  ceased  when  the  full- 
toned  chorus  from  the  seven  elders  took  up  the  third 
psalm  in  slow,  solemn  time.  Its  conclusion  found 


122  The  Silver  Age 

the  boy  fast  asleep,  his  head  fallen  on  his  grand- 
father's shoulders. 


"Stand  in  awe  and  sin  not:  Commune  with 
your  own  heart  upon  your  bed,  and  be  stilL 
Selahf" 

Three  times  were  these  words  repeated,  and  each 
time  with  deeper  feeling,  and  in  more  reverent 
tones. 

In  the  silence  which  followed,  the  six  visitors 
stood  waiting,  their  hands  clasped  before  them  and 
their  eyes  fixed  on  Reb  Yankel.  The  old  man 
stood  for  a  moment  as  if  hesitating,  then  with  de- 
termination, he  took  a  step  to  one  side  and  an  open- 
ing was  made  for  him  in  the  circle.  He  went  up  to 
his  wife  and  laid  the  sleeping  lad  tenderly  in  her 
lap.  Standing  by  her  side,  he  placed  his  hand  upon 
her  head  and  blessed  her  with  silent  moving  lips. 
The  old  woman  had  bent  her  face  over  the  sleeping 
child  and  was  weeping  quiet,  heart-breaking  tears. 
The  Jerushalmin  gathered  in  a  semi-circle  round 
the  husband  and  wife  and  began  chanting  softly  the 
prayer  for  those  who  are  about  to  set  out  on  a 
journey — praying  to  be  directed  in  peace  and  to  be 
delivered  from  enemy,  ambush  and  hurt.  It  was 
opened  in  the  subdued  tones  of  hope;  but  it  ended 
in  glad  notes  of  assurance. 

"/  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills  from 
whence  cometh  my  help.  .  .  .  The  Lord  shall 
preserve  thy  going  out  and  thy  coming  in  from 
this  time  forth,  and  even  for  evermore" 


Reb   Yankel  123 

These  last  words  concluded  the  solemn  service. 
The  six  robed  figures  moved  silently  apart  and 
gathered  together  near  the  doorway,  their  faces 
turned  with  sympathetic  looks  to  the  group  at  the 
fireside.  The  candles  had  burnt  low,  and  were 
flickering  fitfully  in  their  sockets.  The  figures  in 
the  doorway  seemed  like  ghoulish  apparitions  wait- 
ing for  their  victim.  The  little  grandmother 
shivered.  Reb  Jerusha  stepped  forward  and  handed 
Reb  Yankel  his  hat  and  overcoat.  The  old  man 
took  them  from  him  the  tears  streaming  from  his 
eyes.  He  motioned  to  his  friend  to  go,  and  made 
him  understand  by  a  gesture  that  he  would  follow 
later.  Reb  Jerusha  moved  to  the  old  woman,  placed 
his  hand  on  her  head  and  breathed  a  prayer.  Then 
he  hurriedly  crossed  the  room  and  passed  out 
through  the  doorway.  One  by  one  each  of  the 
others  came  forward  and  repeated  Jerusha's  action 
and  blessing  until  all  had  passed  out  into  the  night. 
The  sound  of  departing  steps  broke  the  stillness  of 
the  midnight  air,  echoed  for  a  few  moments  in  the 
court  without,  then  all  was  again  still. 

The  bell  from  the  clock  of  Houndsditch  Church 
boomed  out  the  first  hour  of  the  new  day  as  a  bent 
figure  in  a  tall  hat  left  Reb  Yankel's  house  and 
staggered  down  the  moonlit  street. 


124  The  Silver  Age 


IV 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  Sabbath  in  late  March 
when  the  east  wind  blows  bitingly  in  London  and 
brings  with  it  occasional  flurries  of  soot-stained 
snow-flakes,  an  evening  when  street  passengers  take 
care  to  wrap  themselves  in  heavy  garments  and  home- 
stayers  sit  close  to  the  fireside.  In  the  house  in  New 
Street  the  grate  was  well  filled  with  blazing  coals 
which  sent  a  comforting  glow  over  the  living-room. 
Everything  in  it  was  clean  and  orderly,  as  was 
proper  for  the  Sabbath  day.  The  candles  which 
had  been  lit  and  blessed  flamed  cheerily  on  the 
mantelpiece;  the  meal  had  been  eaten,  the  prayer  of 
thanksgiving  said,  and  the  dishes  removed  into  the 
kitchen.  White  damask  cloths  covered  the  two 
tables,  and  a  white  counterpane  lay  tightly  drawn 
over  a  truckle-bed  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  near  the 
fireplace.  Before  the  fire  sat  grandmother  Freyda, 
spectacles  on  nose,  laboriously  spelling  out  some 
sentimental  moral  tale  in  Yiddish  in  a  cumbrous 
quarto  on  her  knees.  At  the  table  near  the  window, 
Michael  sat  reading  the  psalms  aloud  by  the  light 
of  a  single  candle. 

Five  months  had  passed  since  Reb  Yankel  had 
sailed  for  Palestine.  His  daughter  had  married 
the  man  of  her  choice;  and  when  the  wedding  took 
place  Reb  Yankel  was  nearing  Alexandria.  Two 
letters  from  him  had  been  delivered  at  the  house  in 
New  Street,  in  both  of  which  he  promised  a  speedy 
reunion.  But  the  letters  were  fuller  of  Michele,  and 
his  plans  for  the  boy's  future,  and  of  his  delight  at 


Reb   Yankel  125 

being  in  the  Holy  Land,  than  of  the  definite  infor- 
mation for  which  his  wife  was  eager.  The  last 
letter  was  now  nine  weeks  old,  and  the  little  woman 
had  become  exceedingly  anxious  and  disquieted. 
The  money  Reb  Yankel  had  left  with  her  was  almost 
entirely  spent,  and  she  had  been  compelled  to  write 
to  him  of  her  need.  In  the  meantime,  she  safe- 
guarded herself  by  renting  the  two  bedrooms  up- 
stairs, and  she  and  the  boy  slept  in  the  living-room. 
The  truckle-bed  was  her  couch,  and  little  Michael 
slept  on  two  chairs  placed  against  the  wall.  Michael's 
mother  had  also  received  word  of  her  mother's 
anxiety,  and  had  replied,  saying  she  would  be  in 
London  in  a  few  days  to  look  after  them  both 
until  the  gcod  news  should  come  from  Jerusalem. 
She  might  arrive  any  day. 

The  postman's  loud  rat-tat  resounded  in  the  nar- 
row hallway  and  startled  the  two  sitting  in  the 
room. 

"Quick,  Michele,  run  and  see!  It  may  be  a 
letter  from  grandfather."  She  closed  her  book  ex- 
citedly and  stood  waiting,  her  hand  pressed  against 
her  side.  The  boy  returned,  shouting  gleefully: 

"Grandmother!  It  is  a  letter  from  grandfather. 
I  know  by  the  stamp." 

The  old  woman  took  the  sealed  envelope  in  her 
trembling  hands  and  examined  the  writing  on  it  by 
the  light  of  the  candles.  The  address  was  written 
in  angular,  foreign-looking  English  script.  As  she 
knew  not  how  to  read  English,  the  writing  told  her 
nothing.  But  the  hand-writing  was  different  from 
that  which  she  remembered  seeing  on  the  other 
letters  which  she  had  received. 


126  The  Silver  Age 

"For  who  did  the  postman  say  this  letter  was?" 
she  asked  the  boy. 

"For  Mrs.  Freyda  Spero." 

"Go,  quick  then,  and  ask  the  Gentile  woman  in 
Petticoat  Lane  to  be  so  kind  and  open  it." 

The  boy  took  the  letter  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 
As  the  Sabbath  had  been  ushered  in  hours  since,  she 
could  not,  of  course,  tear  the  paper  of  the  en- 
velope herself. 

It  was  ten  minutes  before  the  lad  returned  with 
the  envelope  opened.  He  handed  it  to  his  grand- 
mother. She  sat  down  where  the  boy  had  been 
sitting  at  his  psalms,  and  took  out  the  letter.  Two 
five-pound  Bank  of  England  notes  fluttered  on  to 
the  tablecloth  from  between  its  folds.  She  took 
these  with  a  smile  and  carefully  inserted  them  in  the 
bosom  of  her  gown.  To  this  day  it  is  a  matter  for 
wonder  among  the  family  that  the  Gentile  woman 
in  Petticoat  Lane,  who  had  opened  the  envelope, 
hdd  not  kept  the  money.  There  must  be  good  Gen- 
tiles in  the  world  as  well  as  good  Jews. 

Like  most  Jewish  women  of  her  time  Freyda 
Spero  had  received  little  or  no  education  in  Hebrew. 
What  she  knew  she  had  picked  up  for  herself 
mostly,  in  the  student's  atmosphere  of  her  house. 
She  could  read  well  enough  the  printed  Hebrew 
characters,  but  the  script  used  in  writing  was  always 
a  very  difficult  matter  for  her  to  decipher.  And, 
indeed,  this  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  for  some 
scripts  would  tax  even  the  expert  eye  of  a  palaeo- 
grapher to  make  out.  The  document,  though 
written  in  the  Hebrew  cursive  characters,  was  in 
Yiddish.  She  paused  for  a  long  time  at  the  open- 


Reb   Yankel  127 

ing  words.  She  could  not,  try  as  she  would,  make 
them  read,  "My  dearest  Freyda."  The  words  kept 
persistently  shaping  themselves  as  uMy  dear  Frau 
Spero."  However,  she  let  that  pass,  and  went  on 
to  the  next  words.  The  more  she  worked  at  them 
the  more  puzzled  she  grew.  How  these  flourishes 
did  bother  one !  Still,  she  kept  bravely  on.  She 
turned  her  head  first  to  left  and  then  to  right,  as  if 
she  thought  that  by  looking  at  them  sideways  the 
words  might  suddenly  reveal  themselves  in  familiar, 
understandable  guise,  as  a  whole.  But  no,  she  could 
make  nothing  out  of  the  jumble.  And  yet  she  had 
not  experienced  this  difficulty  with  the  previous 
letters  from  Yankel.  The  handwriting  was  not  his, 
of  that  she  was  finally  convinced.  A  look  of  fear 
came  into  her  eyes.  Was  anything  the  matter  with 
him?  Was  he  sick  and  unable  to  write?  She 
pressed  her  hand  to  her  bosom.  A  crinkling  sound 
responded  to  the  pressure.  Ah,  the  money !  She 
smiled.  That  certainly  was  Yankel's !  He  must 
have  gone  somewhere  and  asked  some  friend  to 
write  the  letter.  She  returned  to  her  task,  but  after 
several  vain  attempts  she  finally  gave  it  up  in 
despair,  and  laid  the  letter  on  the  table.  As  she 
did  so,  she  felt  a  little  hand  on  her  arm,  and,  look- 
ing down,  saw  her  grandson  watching  her  smilingly. 

"Michele!  Why,  of  course.  You  can  read  it. 
What  an  old  fool  I  am !  Here,  my  dear  child,  read 
it  for  me  aloud,  and  read  it  nicely,  so  that  I  can 
understand  every  word." 

Dear,  simple  soul!  It  was  not  long  before  she 
did,  indeed,  understand  every  word  of  that  fateful 
letter,  as  each  fell  hesitatingly  but  clearly  from  the 


128  The  Silver  Age 

lips  of  her  little  Michele.  The  letter  had  been 
written  by  Reb  Jerusha  and  not  by  Reb  Yankel. 
Reb  Yankel  would  write  no  more  loving  letters  to 
his  beloved  Freyda.  Reb  Yankel  would  dream  no 
more  beautiful  dreams  of  a  reconstituted  and  re- 
peopled  Land  of  Israel.  Reb  Yankel's  great  soul 
would  see  no  more  visions  of  a  new  and  glorified 
Temple  in  Jerusalem.  Reb  Yankel  would  hope  and 
labor  no  longer  for  little  Michele  and  his  future  as 
a  leader  in  Israel.  Reb  Yankel  was  dead — 
dead  of  a  malarial  fever,  caught  while  praying  at  a 
late  hour  by  the  ruins  of  that  western  wall  of  the 
Temple. 

The  boy  finished  the  letter  as  he  had  begun  it, 
in  a  steady,  even  voice.  To  him  the  news  meant 
nothing.  "A  little  child  that  lightly  draws  its 
breath;  what  should  it  know  of  death"?  The  boy 
looked  up  and  saw  that  his  grandmother  had  fallen 
back,  and  was  lying  limp  and  seemingly  asleep.  The 
look  on  the  old,  parchment-like  face  frightened  him. 
He  began  to  cry. 

"Grandmother!  Grandmother!  What's  the  mat- 
ter? You  look  so  ill!"  He  seized  her  cold,  clammy 
hands  and  began  shaking  them.  Getting  no  response 
he  clambered  on  to  her  knees,  put  his  arms  round 
her  neck,  placed  his  warm  cheek  against  her  chilled, 
sunken  one,  and  sobbed  as  if  his  little  heart  were 
bursting. 

"Grandmother!  Grandmother!  Wake  up!  Why 
are  you  sleeping?"  The  warmth  from  the  child's 
body  and  his  salt  tears  on  her  lips,  revived  her  from 
the  faint  which  had  seized  her.  She  opened  her 
eyes  slowly  and  looked  around.  Feeling  the  boy's 


Reb  Yankel  129 

weight  on  her  breast,  she  put  her  arm  gently  round 
him  and  raised  herself  to  a  sitting  position. 

"Michele,"  she  whispered,  uthou  art  here,  near 
me,  art  thou  not?  Do  not  go  away.  I  am  not 
well.  I  would  lie  down  awhile." 

The  boy  loosened  her  arms  from  about  him  and 
slipped  down  from  her  knees.  Leaning  on  him 
heavily  the  old  woman  managed  painfully  to  find 
her  feet  and  shuffled  to  the  bed.  She  laid  herself 
down  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief,  still  holding  the 
lad's  hand. 

"Yankele,  mein  Yankele,"  she  sobbed  brokenly, 
here  face  buried  in  the  pillow,  "my  fears  have  come 
to  pass.  We  shall  lie  buried,  our  graves  seas  apart. " 

Presently  her  moaning  and  sobbing  subsided,  the 
frail  body  proving  too  weak  for  her  sorrow. 

"Lie  next  to  me,  Michele,"  she  murmured,  "it  is 
good  to  have  you  here,  by  my  side." 

The  boy  climbed  into  the  bed  and  stretched  him- 
self by  the  old  woman's  side.  They  lay  thus  to- 
gether, each  embracing  the  other,  for  long  hours, 
numbered  by  the  wheezing  clock.  The  flames  from 
the  candles  flickered  out,  and  left  the  room  in  the 
dim  glow  of  the  fire-light  and  the  faint  glare  of  the 
street  lamp's  flame  through  the  curtained  window. 
Above  them,  on  the  wall,  the  clock's  pendulum 
swung  its  tick-tick,  tick-tick,  relentlessly,  as  if  royally 
indifferent  to  the  throbbings  of  the  tired  heart  lying 
there  in  the  shadows.  From  the  distant  busy  streets 
came  the  hum  of  the  city's  night  life  preparing  for 
its  daily  breathing-spell.  Noises  from  the  shutting 
of  doors  and  latching  of  windows  broke  in.  Then 
utter  silence,  with  only  the  pendulum's  tick-tick, 


130  The  Silver  Age 

tick-tick,  now  seemingly  louder  and  more  relentless. 

"Art  thou  asleep,  Michele,"  came  a  loud  whisper 
in  the  dark. 

"Nearly,  grandmother."  The  boy's  voice  was 
drowsily  heavy. 

"Canst  thou  sing  me  something?" 

"Yes,  grandmother.     What  shall  I  sing  for  you?" 

"Sing  Yigdal.  Sing  it  in  the  tune  thy  grandfather 
loved."  Her  voice  was  barely  audible. 

Out  of  the  darkness,  to  the  tune  Christians  have 
adopted  for  one  of  their  hymns,  came  in  clear  pip- 
ing soprano  notes  the  words  of  that  grand  morning 
call:  "Magnified  and  praised  be  the  living  God." 

Long  before  the  boy  had  finished  his  singing  the 
old  woman  was  sleeping  a  restful,  heart-healing 
sleep.  Soon  the  boy  also  slumbered.  Thus  they 
lay,  side  by  side,  while  the  clock's  pendulum  relent- 
lessly tick-ticked  the  hours  of  night  away. 

When  the  Sabbath  morning  broke,  soft  and  balmy 
with  the  first  touches  of  a  reawakened  spring,  little 
Michael's  grandmother  had  gone  to  meet  Reb 
Yankel  in  a  New  Jerusalem. 


NEW  YORK  AT  TWILIGHT 


131 


NEW  YORK  AT  TWILIGHT 

A  METROPOLITAN  city  is  a  wonderful 
thing.  It  would  seem  as  if,  in  creating  it, 
we  had  enlisted  into  our  service  elemental 
forces  the  secrets  of  which  were  unknown  to  us;  for 
out  of  the  combination  has  arisen  not  only  the  visible 
city  of  our  purpose,  but  another  invisible  living 
thing.  Something  unforseen,  something  undreamed 
of  has  come  into  life;  something  that  never  was  be- 
fore even  in  our  minds,  and  yet  now  that  it  is,  some- 
thing that  somehow  is  ourselves  in  intangible  form. 
It  is  not  the  constructed,  towering  thing  of  bricks 
and  mortar  and  steel,  but  a  mysterious,  impalpable 
permeating  entity  which  the  day's  golden  sunlight 
precipitates  and  sublimates  into  a  kind  of  gladsome, 
personal  impulsive  energy;  which  takes  a  dream- 
like form  of  mystical  beauty  at  twilight,  as  it  comes 
out  embodied  and  couchant,  from  the  half-lights, 
and  which  reveals  in  reeling  revelry  its  will-killing, 
heart-breaking,  irresistible  beauty  at  night. 

In  our  self-forgetting  labors  we  build  better  than 
we  know.  In  making  homes  we  make  sanctuaries 
as  well  as  resting-places.  In  building  a  city  we  pre- 
cipitate the  communal  instinct  along  with  the 
separate  avenues  and  streets,  and  this  communal  in- 
stinct becomes  a  living  entity  in  itself  that  somehow 
or  other  stands  for  each  of  us  as  well  as  for  all  of 
us.  Of  the  city  of  stone  and  steel  we  know  it  as  a 
more  or  less  satisfying  embodiment  of  our  architec- 
tural art,  and  as  a  place  in  which  we  can  eat,  sleep 

133 


134  The  Silver  Age 

and  be  happy,  at  times,  and  at  other  times  be  alone, 
hungry,  and  agonizedly  awake.  This  is  the  city  we 
intended  to  build.  But  that  other  thing,  the  thing 
that  sprang  up  unpurposed,  the  city  of  our  secret 
selves,  that  which  we  might  call  the  spirit  of  the 
city,  of  that  we  can  only  know  as  we  live.  How 
came  it  into  being?  What  happened? 

That  happened  which  always  will  happen  when 
the  creative  impulse  in  us  shapes  our  dreams  and 
desires  and  gives  them  forms  separate  from  our- 
selves— the  forms  take  on  the  divine  qualities  of 
their  creators.  In  the  poem  or  the  painting  it  is 
his  divine  self  that  the  poet  or  the  painter  embodies. 
A  city  is  of  a  like  character,  and  it  is  the  real  selves 
in  us  which  float  unseen  about  it  and  give  the  city 
its  individuality. 

The  city,  however,  differs  in  a  very  important 
essential  from  other  works  of  art.  The  picture  once 
painted  or  the  poem  sung,  it  stands  henceforth  by 
itself;  the  artist  can  do  no  more  for  it.  It  must  live 
or  die  without  further  help  from  him.  But  the  city 
is  never  thus  entirely  separated  from  us,  its  builders. 
It  remains  tied  to  us  by  the  invisible  chords  of  our 
nourishing  passions.  It  grows  with  us  or  it  dies  with 
us.  It  is  thus  in  a  more  real  and  personal  sense  a 
part  of  us  as  we  are  of  it.  It  becomes  then  the 
reflex  of  the  lives  and  aspirations  of  the  people  who 
dwell  in  it.  So  that  a  city — its  streets,  its  highways, 
its  buildings,  its  public  places,  as  well  as  its  business 
and  life — is  an  embodiment  of  ourselves.  It  is  this 
living  spirit  that  may  hearten  and  inspire  us;  that 
may  delight  and  enchant  us;  and  that  may  also  break 
and  destroy  us. 


New   York  at  Twilight  135 

I  may  never  forget  my  first  impression  of  New 
York  when  I  sailed  up  its  bay  and  saw,  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  raised  torch  in  the  uplifted  hand  of  the 
figure  rising  from  the  waters  as  Liberty.  I  caught 
my  breath  in  an  exultant  aspiration.  The  wide,  blue 
dome  of  the  sky,  so  near  to  me  through  the  crystal- 
clear  atmosphere,  seemed  to  bend  toward  me  as  if 
to  welcome  my  hope.  I  sported  in  the  sensation.  But 
for  a  little  while  only.  Beyond  the  statue  rose  solid 
parallelograms  of  upright,  gigantic  blocks,  pierced 
with  countless  holes  that  looked  like  the  barred  win- 
dows of  prison  cells.  The  blocks  towered  dark, 
frowning  and  inhospitably  repelling.  A  vague  fear 
came  over  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  about  to  enter 
through  the  gates  of  a  mighty  fortified  place  where 
my  hope  would  be  smothered  and  where  the  blue 
dome  would  be  visible  only  as  a  patch,  from  the 
bottom  of  some  deep  canon. 

It  was  the  evening  of  what  had  been  a  glorious 
day  in  early  May  when  I  landed.  I  was  too  be- 
wildered to  have  any  clear  impression  of  the  place. 
I  was  rushed,  almost  against  my  will,  along  the 
overhead  iron  rails,  to  the  sound  of  the  clanging  of 
bells  and  the  booming  of  laden  cars,  to  my  lodging 
for  the  night.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  flung  into  a 
maelstrom.  It  was  as  if  I  were  one  of  thousands 
who  were  all  being  catapulted  at  some  invisible  tar- 
get by  some  mighty  hand  that  had  taken  us  in  its 
grasp.  I  finally  found  myself,  panting  and  mentally 
scattered,  in  the  vestibule  of  a  hotel.  An  hour  later 
I  stole  out  to  find  my  sky.  I  found  it  at  last  by  the 
aid  of  some  stars.  It  was  no  longer  bending  over 
me.  It  had  removed  itself  far,  far  away,  and  I 


136  The  Silver  Age 

could  see  but  an  oblong  section  of  it  stretching  flat 
and  spangled  over  the  tops  of  gigantic  buildings. 
Only  toward  the  hills  of  Jersey  did  I  see  it  again, 
and  there  it  glowed  and  burned  and  shot  rainbow 
colors  of  such  fulsome  beauty  that  hope  fluttered 
once  more.  I  made  little  attempt  to  wander  far.  I 
was  bruised  and  ill.  I  lay  down  that  the  silent  night 
might  heal  me.  The  silent  night  never  came.  The 
clanging  and  clashing  and  dull,  distant  booming  kept 
me  awake  until  the  dawn  began  stealing  into  my 
room.  Then  only  the  sounds  ceased,  but  for  a 
moment,  and  in  the  interval  I  lost  consciousness. 

It  was  some  years  before  I  really  regained  con- 
sciousness. I  had  received  a  stunning  blow  from 
some  hidden  fist  that  had  sent  me  sprawling  and 
seeing  lights  in  a  mist.  But  I  rose  again  a  new  man 
with  a  new  heart  in  me.  Gradually  my  complacent 
egotism  became  changed  into  an  assertive  determina- 
tion. I  began  to  realize  that  I  was  but  one  among 
many  others,  and  that  we  were  all  striving,  work- 
ing, pressing  for  life  and  power.  I  realized  the 
city's  spirit  by  day  as  a  beautiful,  energizing  being 
filled  with  a  passion  for  accomplishment,  and  with 
a  fierce  desire  for  success.  Her  beauty  was  for  the 
young,  the  keen,  the  alert,  for  those  who  are  im- 
pelled and  empowered  by  a  master  will.  She  called 
on  them  with  a  heartening  bugle  voice  to  dare 
bravely  and  do  worthily.  She  pointed  to  the  statue 
resting  on  the  waters  of  the  bay  with  one  hand,  and 
with  the  other  to  the  flag  waving  silently  from  the 
sunlit  columns.  In  secret  whisper  and  outward 
gesture  she  said  to  them:  "Make  me  grow  also  in 
the  beauty  of  their  spirit  as  you  have  in  the  beauty 


New  York  at  Twilight  137 

of  this  landscape  and  sky,  and  I  will  serve  you  and 
abide  with  you  always."  Listening,  I  understood, 
and  understanding,  I  labored. 

When  the  day  was  about  to  close  and*  the  work 
was  over,  I  saw  the  city's  spirit  at  twilight.  I 
watched  her  then  grow  into  being,  and  stood  afar 
off  and  caught  her  rising  like  an  Aphrodite  from  the 
sea  of  misty  evenings  and  the  glow  of  molten  gold 
that  outvied  the  sunsets  as  it  spread  its  illuminating 
lines  along  the  pavement  of  the  great  Avenue  and 
over  the  buildings  of  the  seething  Broadway.  This 
was  the  time  of  my  fulfilment  of  joy.  Spring  and 
summer,  autumn  and  winter  would  find  me  waiting, 
watching  for  her  nightly  rebirth,  and  always  gazing 
fascinated  by  her  ever-changing,  enchanting  beauty. 

I  dared  not  face  her  at  night.  I  had  known  the 
spirit  of  London  at  such  a  time,  and  it  was  a  terri- 
fying thing.  A  stealthy  vampire,  it  stole  as  a  ghoul- 
like  shadow,  with  only  its  fascinating  eyes  and 
scorching  breath  to  tell  me  of  its  presence.  And 
London  was  the  metropolis  of  a  civilization  two 
millenniums  old;  a  civilization  that  had  had  time 
in  which  to  grow  in  dignity,  urbanity  and  courtesy. 
What  must  New  York,  a  city  of  yesterday,  be  like, 
where  not  a  day  passes  that  does  not  demand  and 
receive  its  sacrifice  of  souls? 

When  I  did  see  her  at  night,  I  knew  another  New 
York.  Her  secret  was  revealed  as  I  saw  the  strong, 
the  wise,  the  cunning,  the  mighty  men  of  the  day, 
cleansed  of  the  dust  of  toil,  pouring  out  of  their 
homes  into  the  great  highways  of  the  metropolis, 
straining  and  stretching  for  an  embrace,  and  giving 
up  all  they  had  toiled  for  by  day  for  a  kiss  from  the 


138  The  Silver  Age 

lips  of  this  wondrous  queen  of  the  night.  I  saw  a 
bacchanal's  and  a  satyr's  dance  to  the  music  of  a 
siren's  silvery  scintillating  laughter.  It  swept  the 
streets,  filled  the  restaurants  and  echoed  along  the 
corridors  of  brilliantly  lit  pleasure  palaces.  The 
goddess  of  the  day  was  metamorphosed  into  a  reck- 
less Bacchante.  The  city  had  given  itself  up  to  a 
carnival.  Towers  and  turrets,  pinnacles  and  spires 
were  lost  in  a  sky  of  inky  blue  above,  while  below 
every  foundation  burned  and  glowed  in  a  white 
heat.  The  City  of  Endeavor  had  become  the  City 
of  Pleasure.  When  the  dawn  broke  nothing  re- 
mained but  a  silence,  wan  and  pale.  The  place  was 
like  a  whited  sepulchre. 

Not  by  night  not  yet  by  day  do  I  find  the  city's 
spirit  fulfilled.  Neither  in  maturity  nor  in  barren 
passion  do  we  realize  the  beneficent,  kindly  and 
human  companion  of  the  lady  of  our  dreams.  It 
is  at  twilight  that  this  being  is  really  herself,  and  it 
is  then  that  we  find  ourselves  in  her  reality.  When 
the  day  is  melting  into  night,  and  the  silvery  air  is 
stilled  with  the  stress  of  expectant  revelations,  our 
Lady  of  Hope  rises  and  beckons  us  homeward.  She 
is  no  longer  the  dictating  deity  of  the  day;  she  is 
the  Guardian  Angel  of  the  fireside,  whispering  to 
us  the  deep  secrets  of  abiding  happiness.  Her  breath 
is  veils  of  unfolding  and  enfolding  mystery  wreath- 
ing in  many  colors  and  transfiguring  the  city's  archi- 
tecture. Towering  turrets  are  palaces  of  Aladdin; 
the  burning  broad-based  columns  rise  as  clouds  of 
incense  offered  to  the  glory  of  accomplished  labor 
and  the  gods  of  the  hearth.  Cars,  laden  with  men 
and  women,  tired  and  newly  eager,  move  in  lines  of 


New  York  at  Twilight  139 

light.  The  great  square  castles  by  the  riverside 
twinkle  into  a  new  life  with  their  thousands  of  elec- 
tric lamps,  and  what  was  before  a  solid  mass  is  now 
but  a  scarcely  visible  wraith.  Brooklyn  Bridge,  the 
graceful  lady  of  the  day  who  flies  the  river  in  one  danc- 
ing step,  is  now  a  dream  of  webs  coruscating  with 
brilliant  jewels.  The  spire  of  the  Singer  Building 
is  a  black  cloud  pierced  with  luminous  rifts  and  out- 
lined in  glowing  beads.  Up  from  the  distant  shining 
pavement  rise,  in  tier  on  tier  of  lights,  the  stories  of 
the  Flatiron  Building,  in  the  ascending  repetitions  of 
a  passion  fugue.  To  the  east  of  it  looms  the  spec- 
tral giant  of  the  Metropolitan  Tower,  its  heart  lit 
up  and  its  gilded  head  flaring  with  a  beacon's  light 
over  the  misty  sea  of  the  city's  murmuring  pulsa- 
tions. The  great  canon  of  Fifth  Avenue  canopied 
with  spangled  deep  ultramarine,  sends  along  a  living 
stream  of  moving  shadows,  parti-colored,  now  white, 
now  purple,  now  black,  a  procession  of  spectral 
forms  climbing  to  the  white  horizon  at  the  canon's 
mouth,  where  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral  sends  its  two 
white  prayers  into  heaven.  The  floating  island  of 
Manhattan  is  become  an  enchanted  fairyland,  and 
under  the  spell  of  its  embracing  beauty  the  tired 
heart  and  wearied  brain  are  refreshed  and  reani- 
mated, eager  to  welcome  the  coming  of  the  city's 
night  queen. 

This  is  the  time  at  almost  any  season  of  the  year, 
when  I  say  to  my  friend  from  England,  "Come,  let 
us  take  a  walk  up  the  Avenue."  Then  we  stroll 
with  the  procession,  glancing  in  at  hostelries,  admir- 
ing chateaux  through  wooded  alleys  of  the  park,  be- 
yond the  fire-tipped  heights  of  Morningside,  to  the 


140  The  Silver  Age 

splendid  esplanade  bending  and  embracing  the  mag- 
nificent river  now  changed  into  a  broad  sea  of  molten 
gold. 

"This  is  New  York,"  I  add,  and  my  friend  is 
moved  with  wonder  and  awe.  He  looks  in  mute 
astonishment  at  the  towering  faqades  of  the  huge 
blocks  of  homes  transfigured  now  in  the  glow  of 
the  dying  sun's  light  and  turns  from  them  to  the 
shimmering  river,  and  the  black  palisades  of  Jersey. 
"What  an  achievement!"  he  exclaims.  "This  must 
be  the  city  of  the  Olympians." 

"No,"  I  answer,  "not  at  all  of  Olympians,  but  of 
men  and  women  like  ourselves.  And  they  have 
built  it  out  of  Hope,  the  Hope  of  the  New  World 
that  was  born  of  the  despair  of  the  Old  World." 

We  sit  on  the  wide  veranda  of  the  Claremont 
with  the  water  clear  below  us.  To  the  north  the 
river  sweeps  in  a  magnificent  curve  and  ends  in  a 
line  of  serried  hills  now  utter  black  against  the  pure 
white  of  the  dying  sun's  light.  To  the  south  we 
see  the  upright  masses  of  buildings  gleaming  with 
their  lights  and  smoking  in  the  vapor-laden  at- 
mosphere. The  river  itself  shimmers  and  waves  like 
shining,  molten  brass.  Tug-boats  and  ferry-boats, 
barges  and  launches  cut  black  lines  into  this  living, 
heaving  liquid.  Sounds  come  from  every  side;  here, 
the  music  from  the  orchestra  within;  there,  the 
warming  megaphonic  toots  from  the  river  craft; 
behind,  the  dull  booming  of  the  city  waking  into  a 
new  life,  and  among  all  these  the  silvery  laughter 
of  women  and  the  cries  of  joyous  promenaders.  It 
is  the  time  of  blessedness. 

There  is  in  the  hour  of  twilight  a  special  appeal 


New  York  at  Twilight  141 

which  is  neither  in  the  day  nor  in  the  night.  It  is 
as  if  Nature  were  then  unbending  herself  from  her 
imperious  mood  to  talk  with  us  in  our  own  human 
language.  By  day  and  by  night  she  is  herself  in 
all  her  stern  majesty.  We  can  but  hope  that  what 
we  are  then  finding  out  about  her  is  the  truth  of 
her,  for  she  herself  remains  unresponsive  to  our 
calls,  royally  indifferent.  But  at  twilight  she  is 
another  being.  Her  reality  seems  uncertain  to  the 
eye  and  incomprehensible  to  the  mind;  but  we  feel 
we  know  her.  Not  by  the  mind  do  we  realize 
this  knowledge;  it  comes  as  a  conviction.  Emotions 
arise  in  us,  unbidden,  as  if  in  response  to  some  whis- 
pered appeal  from  without.  We  hear  messages  and 
respond  to  them.  We  are  in  communion  with  an 
invisible  existence  in  a  language  not  of  human 
invention,  yet  unforgettably  intelligible.  Everything 
is  speaking  it,  we  with  the  others.  Trees  and  hills, 
river  and  road,  field  and  sky,  cloud  and  star,  all  are 
talking  to  us  and  we  to  them.  It  is  the  hour  of 
reunion,  and  Nature  invites  us  to  communicate  with 
her.  But  her  salon  is  neither  the  wide  ocean,  nor 
the  great  prairie,  nor  the  aisled  forests,  nor  yet  the 
gardens  or  the  cathedral  closes;  it  is  the  mighty 
metropolitan  city  built  by  human  hands  and  mated 
to  God's  landscape;  the  city  in  which  the  art  of 
man  has  been  made  a  part  of  the  landscape  and 
sky.  For  here  all  may  meet  and  embrace  Mother 
Nature's  living  truth.  She  knows  that  during  the 
day  and  night  we  are  too  much  taken  up  with  our 
ambitions  and  desires — so  that  she  steals  away  at 
those  times  to  the  hills  and  forests,  and  is  alone, 
for  we  rarely  visit  her  there.  But  as  we  are  a 


142  The  Silver  Age 

part  of  her,  and  as  we  alone  can  express  her  as 
she  longs  to  be  expressed,  she  needs  us.  She  comes, 
therefore,  but  she  takes  us  unawares,  and  the 
twilight  hour  is  the  witching  hour.  Some  day  we 
shall  build  our  cities  with  this  understanding  of  her, 
and  then  they  will  be  as  inevitable  as  the  everlasting 
hills,  and  our  life  in  them  free  and  joyous. 


FIFTH  AVENUE  AND  THE 
BOULEVARD  SAINT-MICHEL 


143 


FIFTH  AVENUE  AND  THE  BOULEVARD 
SAINT-MICHEL 

"O,  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy! 
Give  back  ray  twentieth  spring." 

HUS  murmured  to  himself  Michael  Weaver 
as  he  strolled  aimlessly  along  the  broad  pave- 
ment of  New  York's  avenue-promenade,  one 
delightful  blue  and  gold  evening  in  April.  The  air 
was  like  wine;  the  brilliant  light  reflected  from 
the  white  stone  of  the  buildings,  silver  in  its  tone, 
sharpened  outlines  and  made  silhouettes  of  the  few 
belated  home-goers  and  strollers  like  himself;  the 
deep,  rich  ultramarine  of  the  sky,  already  spangling 
with  the  twilight  stars,  seemed  like  a  silken  canopy 
of  blue  tightly  stretched  above  the  canon  of  the 
street;  and  the  atmosphere  was  laden  as  if  with  the 
aromas  of  numberless  anticipated  enjoyments  and 
loves.  Surely  that  scent  came  from  Angele's  hair? 
Ah,  dear  little  Angele!  What  was  she  doing 
now?  And  that  stray  breeze,  did  it  not  bring  with 
it  the  odor  of  the  markets  of  the  Quartier  when 
the  lilacs  are  out  in  Paris?  Oh,  the  lilacs  of  Paris! 
The  tears  welled  up  to  his  kindly  brown  eyes  as 
his  heart  cried  the  words. 

Yes,  eight  years  had  gone  by,  and  here  he  was 
again  in  New  York,  lost  in  the  loneliness  of  its 
seething  thoroughfares,  a  stranger  in  a  land  which, 
though  it  had  given  him  birth,  was  to  him  now 
as  a  strange  land.  True,  the  light  and  the  sky 
were  still  lovely,  the  air  was  strength-giving;  these, 

145 


146  The  Silver  Age 

too,  were  magnificent  structures,  showing  a  barbaric 
daring  in  the  architect-builders.  But  the  people, 
oh,  the  people!  They  were  so  cold,  so  indifferent, 
so  self-centred,  so  ignorant  and  careless  of  beauty! 
Life  was  impossible  among  them.  The  place  was 
but  a  whited  sepulchre  for  frustrated  ambitions, 
a  graveyard  of  lost  ideals.  Look  at  Fifth  Avenue, 
and  think  of  the  Boul'  Mich' !  He  smiled  in 
supreme  disdain.  What  a  contrast!  Idealism  and 
materialism — light  and  darkness — culture  and  ignor- 
ance— hope  and  despair — joy  and  misery — life  and 
death!  Proper  synonyms  for  the  two  places;  and 
he  smiled  again  at  the  mental  picture  he  made  of 
the  table  of  words. 

He  had  gone  to  Paris,  when  twenty  years  of 
age,  fired  with  an  ambition  to  become  a  great 
painter.  He  had  entered  into  the  life  of  the  Latin 
Quarter  and  had  found  himself  at  home  in  it.  He 
had  grown  there  in  knowledge  of  his  art  and  in 
dexterity  of  his  craft.  It  had  nursed  his  hopes  and 
deepened  his  joys.  Life  had  been  worth  living.  It 
was  good  to  be  with  friends,  and  it  was  a  kindly 
place,  asking  not  too  much  for  the  privilege  of  its 
citizenship.  He  had  loved  a  little,  and  had  found  a 
quiet,  simple  happiness  in  his  love.  But  he  could 
not  go  on  living  there  always.  Even  the  Quarter 
must,  sooner  or  later,  be  paid  in  money  for  food 
and  rent;  and  his  money  had  given  out.  Further- 
more, he  had  acquitted  himself  master  in  his  art, 
and  he  had  been  told  that  he  could  get  better  prices 
for  his  pictures  in  New  York.  And  better  prices 
meant  that  he  would  the  more  quickly  be  able  to 
come  back.  He  would  leave  the  Boul'  Mich',  for 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel       147 

a  short  time,  and  try  his  luck  on  Fifth  Avenue.  But 
he  would  come  back;  oh,  yes,  he  would  come  back. 

He  hardly  recognized  New  York  as  the  same 
city  he  had  known  as  a  boy.  It  was  all  so  different 
— so  much  more  imposing  and  so  much  more  over- 
whelming. The  streets  were  changed,  and  the 
people  were  not  the  same.  He  had  been  now  nine 
months  in  New  York.  He  had  walked  the  Avenue 
until  he  knew  by  instinct  every  building  on  both 
its  sides  from  Madison  Square  to  the  Plaza.  He 
had  carried  his  canvases  from  dealer  to  dealer, 
and  had  been  received  and  dismissed,  sometimes 
with  polite,  and  sometimes  with  brusque,  attentions. 
The  little  money  he  had  scraped  together,  over 
and  above  his  fare  from  Paris,  he  had  lived  on, 
during  these  trying  months,  with  painful  husbandry, 
at  the  rate  of  twenty  cents  a  day.  When  almost 
on  the  verge  of  starvation  and  despair,  he  had  met 
Finch,  and  Finch,  the  good  angel,  who  had  seen 
his  work  with  seeing  eyes,  had  opened  his  doors  to 
him,  and  had  befriended  him  in  his  time  of  sorest 
need.  This  had  been  the  one  bright  ray  of  God's 
sunlight  that  had  visited  him  in  what  was  become 
for  him  a  City  of  Dreadful  Night. 

For  nine  months,  he  had  tramped  the  streets, 
looking  eagerly  and  wistfully  for  a  face  that  might 
touch  his  gentle  spirit  with  a  human  grace;  but, 
until  quite  lately,  he  had  found  not  one.  Every 
face  he  had  looked  at  was  stern,  and  hard,  and 
cruel.  If  one  smiled,  the  smile  was  arrogant  or 
self-complacent,  or  wooing  for  a  service  to  be  ob- 
tained. If  one  laughed,  it  was  at  some  obscene 
jest,  or  because  of  a  satisfaction  at  a  successfully 


148  The  Silver  Age 

achieved  sharp  practice.  Things  of  beauty  were 
not  bought  for  the  joy  they  gave,  but  for  the  price 
paid;  and  the  higher  the  price,  the  more  loudly 
was  it  proclaimed  with  unctuous  iteration.  Culture 
there  was  none.  He  had  met  many  people  of  so- 
called  enlightenment;  but  he  had  found  them  super- 
ficial and  hollow.  It  was  a  veneer  culture — noth- 
ing more.  When  he  scratched  it,  never  so  lightly, 
the  common  wood  showed  itself  beneath.  Oh,  yes, 
they  were  polite  and  pleasant,  but  the  politeness  and 
pleasantness  meant  little.  These  were  but  baits  to 
catch  the  innocent  fish.  He  was  soon  shown  the 
rough  side  when  it  was  found  that  he  was  but  a 
poor  devil  of  an  artist  who  had  nothing  to  give. 
And  how  expensive  it  was  merely  to  live  1  Food 
and  clothes  and  rent  swallowed  money — literally 
devoured  it.  What  a  price  to  pay  for  such  a 
privilege ! 

It  had  been  so  different  in  Paris!  Paris  also 
was  beautiful,  but  beautiful  in  a  very  appealing 
and  a  very  intimate  way.  In  Paris  one  could 
always  find  a  kindred  spirit  to  whom  one  could 
speak,  if  not  heart  to  heart,  then  certainly  with  an 
assurance  of  obtaining  sympathy,  and  without  the 
blighting  fear  of  ridicule  and  of  being  misunder- 
stood. In  New  York  the  talk  was  all  of  money, 
money,  money,  and  business,  and  the  stock-market, 
and  values.  Values !  He  smiled,  unconsciously,  as 
he  murmured  the  word  of  the  art-world,  thinking 
of  the  difference  in  the  meaning  of  the  double 
uses  to  which  the  word  was  put.  In  Paris,  he 
could  drop  in  at  a  cabaret  with  the  certainty  of 
meeting  a  brother  in  hope  or  a  fellow  in  thought. 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel       149 

Here,  the  restaurants  were  for  the  rich  only.  There 
were  no  restaurants  for  artists.  How  could  there 
be,  where  there  were  no  artists?  These  so-called 
artists  were  in  business,  not  in  Art.  And  where 
should  these  go  but  to  the  places  where  business 
men  went?  They  were  tradesmen,  like  the  rest. 
And  even  if  he  could  afford  them,  the  restaurants 
and  hotels  were  but  desert-places  for  him.  True, 
he  had  met  Arthur  Finch  in  one  of  them;  but  Finch 
was  only  one  in  five  millions.  He  was  kind  and 
good,  and  a  fine  fellow,  but  even  Finch  did  not 
know  all  that  an  artist  felt  in  his  innermost  heart. 

In  Paris  he  had  painted  and  had  expressed 
himself.  If  he  had  made  little  money,  he  had,  at 
any  rate,  found  appreciation  and  encouragement. 

Matisse  knew  he  could  beat  him  at  his  own  game, 
and  Matisse  was  no  small  man  even  though  he 
had  begun  to  prostitute  his  genius  for  gain.  Matisse 
had  admired  his  work,  and  thought  it  remarkable,  had 
acknowledged  his  wonderful  sense  for  color.  Even 
Cezanne  had  smiled  his  approval!  Cezanne,  the 
Master !  Weaver  stopped  himself  in  his  walk,  arrested 
by  the  mere  sound  of  the  august  name.  "C'est  un 
homme!"  he  murmured  piously.  Paris  alone  could 
breed  such  a  man !  In  New  York  Cezanne  would  have 
died  in  a  season.  Its  hot-house  atmosphere  would 
have  shriveled  his  heart  and  dried  up  the  fountains 
of  his  inspiration.  Oh,  to  be  near  him  again;  to 
be  back  once  more,  if  but  in  that  poor  attic  an 
cinquieme!  Better  a  crust  there  than  a  feast  at  the 
silvered  table  of  the  Dutch  House,  even  with  Finch 
as  host.  Ah,  yes,  Finch  had  been  very  kind.  He 
had  shown  his  paintings  in  the  Gallery  of  the 


150  The  Silver  Age 

Golden  Disk;  but  it  had  done  no  good.  The  peo- 
ple, poor  ignorant  things,  the  people  had  come, 
had  looked,  and  had  left,  thinking  the  man  who  had 
painted  them  was  mad.  A  single  canvas  had  found 
a  purchaser,  and  he,  probably  had  bought  it  out  of 
a  feeling  of  charity  and  pity  for  the  artist. 
Mon  Dleu!  Mon  Dieuf  Is  it  right — is  it 
right  that  the  finest  flowers  of  the  human  soul 
should  be  nipped  in  the  bud?  Is  it  just  that  ras- 
cality and  ignorance  should  prevail,  and  the  chi- 
caner  conquer?  Is  it  fair  that  the  ladder  of  fame 
and  success  should  be  for  mountebanks,  and  the 
chariots  of  ease  for  charlatans?  Was  it  impos- 
sible for  him  to  make  even  a  little  money  by  his 
work?  He  feared  it  was.  He  did  not  know  how 
to  be  insincere,  and  to  put  on  a  false  face  with  a 
smile.  It  was  not  in  his  nature,  either,  to  pander 
to  the  degraded  tastes  of  bloated  plutocrats.  He 
could  not  do  these  things  and  be  true  to  his  art. 
And  yet  he  had  been  told  that  New  York  was  the 
art-market  of  the  world.  Rich  Americans  were 
generous  patrons  of  art.  Patrons,  indeed !  Patron- 
izers,  yes;  but  patrons!  Faugh! 

Others  had  succeeded  because  they  knew  the 
ropes.  They  were  better  business  men  than  they 
were  artists.  They  could  play  politics,  and  could 
talk  glibly  at  their  exhibitions  to  the  fine  ladies  who 
came,  and  entertain  the  critics  with  luncheon  and 
cigars.  The  critics!  He  laughed  bitterly  as  he 
uttered  the  word.  What  did  these  penny-a-liners 
know  of  art?  They  did  little  else  than  drool  out, 
parrot-like,  their  jargon  of  "artistry."  And  if  they 
did  know,  they  wouldn't  dare  to  write  honestly  for 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel       151 

fear  of  offending  the  editor.  They  were  in  the 
swim,  with  the  rest.  It  was  all  a  game.  The 
artist  toadied  the  dealer,  the  dealer  toadied  the 
critic,  the  critic  toadied  the  editor,  and  the  editor 
toadied  the  advertiser. 

Thinking  these  thoughts,  Weaver  had  arrived 
at  his  lodging.  Wearily  he  mounted  the  four 
flights  of  dark,  dingy,  creaking  stairs  of  a  house 
reeking  of  numberless  indescribable  odors,  and  laid 
himself  down  on  his  hard  bed. 

The  day  following  was  a  lordly  day,  glorious 
with  sunshine  and  clean  air.  It  had  rained  a  lit- 
tle during  the  night,  and  the  rain  seemed  to  have 
washed  crystal  clear  the  atmosphere  of  the  mag- 
nificent high-road  as  Weaver  trod  it  on  his  way 
to  the  Dutch  House  to  meet  Finch.  He  had  been 
up  since  four  o'clock,  working  on  a  portrait — a  com- 
mission Finch  had  obtained  for  him.  He  had  done 
a  day's  work  with  satisfaction  to  himself,  and  he 
was  glad. 

Certainly,  it  was  splendid,  this  gorgeous  avenue, 
with  its  endless  perspective  lost  in  the  blue  of  its 
narrowed  horizon.  The  tall  structures  appeared  to 
him  as  broad  columns  of  aspirations — fire-offerings 
of  ambition  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts.  The  pointed 
spires  of  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral  shot  white  hopes 
into  a  sky  of  uplifting  light.  He  straightened  him- 
self as  he  walked.  He  was  feeling  the  mysterious 
power  which  emanated  from  this  wonderful  mar- 
riage of  God's  art  with  man's  art.  In  an  uncon- 
scious expansion  of  himself  through  the  subtle  in- 
fluence of  this  power,  he  thrilled  in  responsive 
ecstasy.  It  was  an  experience  he  had  rarely  known 


152  The  Silver  Age 

in  Paris.  It  lifted  him  up  and  bore  him  gallantly 
along,  his  face  transfigured  from  the  renewed  ac- 
cession of  strength  which  the  brave  show  and  the 
brave  air  imparted  to  him. 

"Not  in  vain  the  distance  beckons.    Forward,  Forward,  let  us  range. 
Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of 
change." 

Tennyson's  lines,  learnt  by  him  at  school,  came  back 
to  him.  He  chanted  them  aloud,  again  and  again, 
his  steps  keeping  time  to  the  rhythm,  and  thus 
chanting,  found  himself  arrived  at  his  destination. 
They  were  all  there,  sitting  at  a  long  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  spacious  and  high-ceilinged  cafe.  Finch, 
with  his  great  shock  of  grizzled  hair,  and  brown 
eyes  glinting  through  pince-nez,  was  at  the  head; 
and  little  podgy-faced  Church,  smiling  as  usual,  at 
the  foot.  Room  was  made  for  Weaver,  who  was 
heartily  welcomed,  between  the  pale-faced  and 
kindly-eyed  Zerxes,  the  caricaturist,  and  the  light- 
haired  Nelson  Hardy,  the  art  critic,  with  his  ag- 
gressive jaws  and  sharp  blue  Norwegian  eyes.  John 
Seaman,  the  water-color  landscape  painter,  with  his 
thin,  elongated  nose  and  long,  dark  hair  matted  over 
his  forehead  and  almost  hiding  his  eyes,  sat  oppo- 
site him.  Next  to  Seaman,  Charles  Cockayne, 
critic  and  lecturer  on  art,  leaned  back  portentously, 
his  rubicund  face  and  shelf-like  nether  lip  speaking 
of  complacent  self-assurance.  Or.  Finch's  right  sat 
Stuyvesant  Marsh,  quiet  and  yet  eager,  nervously 
curling  upward  an  evidently  highly  cherished  blond 
moustache.  On  his  left  was  James  Foote,  the  re- 
viewer and  humorist,  his  pleasant,  full-cheeked  coun- 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel       153 

tenance  made  child-like  and  inviting  by  a  pair  of 
innocent,  laughing,  light  blue  eyes.  Hewitt,  the 
photographer,  was  also  there,  as  were  Frangois 
Aiterre,  an  amateur  in  the  right  sense  of  the  word, 
and  Healey,  a  lawyer  with  a  taste  for  polite  letters. 

So  strange  a  conglomerate  of  contrasting  indi- 
vidualities surely  never  gathered  at  one  time  around 
a  table  in  the  purlieus  of  the  Latin  Quarter !  And 
yet,  here  were  these  sitting  amiably  in  the  most  select 
of  hostelries  in  New  York's  most  famous  of  ave- 
nues. All  claimed  to  be  idealists,  and  each  had  his 
own  way  of  asserting  his  claim;  and  a  pronounced 
and  uncompromising  way  it  was,  too.  The  table 
was  free  for  all  expressions  of  opinions;  and,  it 
must  be  said,  expressions  often  came  with  reckless 
directness.  The  truth  is,  they  were  all  egoists,  each 
ready,  at  the  first  sip  of  the  wine  of  success,  to  be- 
come intoxicated  with  the  glory  of  achievement,  and 
"make  a  fume  out  of  the  warder  of  the  brain." 

But  Finch  kept  them  in  order.  He  was  host  and 
dominie  in  one.  He  led  the  conversation  and  deftly 
turned  it  into  harmless  byways  if  the  discussion 
threatened  to  become  too  animated  and  personal. 
He  scolded  roundly  if  one  proved  too  recalcitrant, 
and  praised  when  a  remark  was  happily  put.  He 
knew  them  all  well.  He  had  listened  to  their  bitter 
cries  in  private  confession,  and  had  helped  when 
help  meant  a  self-realization  and  not  a  self-deteriora- 
tion. He  was  acquainted  with  their  griefs  and  had 
knowledge  of  their  sins.  They  were  his  children — 
wayward  at  times,  childish  at  other  times,  but 
earnest  at  heart,  and  sincere  at  all  times. 

Weaver  looked  around  the  table  with  a  pleased 


154  The  Silver  Age 

face.  A  comfortable  sensation  pervaded  his  body. 
The  pure  air  and  the  rich  appointments  appealed  to 
his  love  of  cleanliness  and  order.  He  had  seen 
nothing  like  this  on  the  Boul'  Mich'.  The  napery 
was  spotless,  and  the  silver  shone  dazzlingly  in  the 
light  from  the  great  lustred  electrolier  above.  Busy, 
yet  quiet  and  devotedly  attentive  waiters,  hovered 
about.  One  of  them  offered  him,  bowingly,  the 
menu-card  for  the  day  framed  in  silver.  He  took 
it  nervously,  barely  glancing  at  the  long  list  of  tempt- 
ing dishes,  and  quietly  whispered  his  order  for  roast- 
beef  and  a  baked  potato.  As  he  handed  back  the 
card,  he  heard  Finch's  voice. 

uHow  goes  the  work,  Seaman?  Have  you  done 
anything  since  you  came  back?" 

"A  little;  but  I  haven't  had  much  time.  I'm  busy 
getting  ready  for  the  show  at  your  place." 

"That's  right.  Next  month  we  shall  show  the 
Rodin  drawings;  but  after  that's  over,  it  will  be 
your  turn." 

"I'll  be  ready  by  then.  But,  say,  I've  been  work- 
ing on  that  Flatiron  building,  and  I  think  I've  got 
it,  once  for  all.  I've  got  it  floating  in  the  sky, 
mounting  into  clouds  of  gray,  and  gold,  and  ultra- 
marine. I  never  was  so  pleased  with  anything  I 
ever  did  before." 

"Good  for  you,  Seaman !  You  can  do  it,  if  any- 
one can,"  replied  Finch  warmly. 

Weaver  had  been  listening  eagerly.  Finch  had 
given  him  his  chance,  but  nothing  had  come  of  it. 
Perhaps  Seaman  might  fare  no  better.  He  thought 
it  well  to  interpolate  advice. 

"I   hope,  Seaman,  you'll  not   forget  to  put  into 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel       155 

that  Flatiron  picture  of  yours  the  feeling  of  its 
fourth-dimension  quality — the  consciousness  of  a 
great  and  overwhelming  sense  of  space-magnitude  in 
all  directions  at  one  time." 

uMy  dear  Weaver,"  and  Seaman  permitted  a 
smile  to  steal  over  his  thin  face,  "I  know  exactly 
what  you  mean.  I'll  try  all  I  can  to  put  it  into  the 
picture;  but  you  know  it's  not  easy  to  live  up  to 
your  standard." 

"Oh,  Weaver's  got  the  fourth-dimension-quality 
bee  humming  in  his  bonnet!"  exclaimed  Hardy,  his 
jaws  chopping  the  words  as  he  ejected  them  from 
his  mouth. 

"You  can  say  what  you  like,  Hardy,  about  my 
fourth-dimension-quality,  but  I  don't  expect  an  art- 
critic  to  know  art,"  and  Weaver's  eyes  shot  light. 

"Now,  don't  let  us  get  on  that  subject  again," 
cried  Finch.  "If  Cockayne  keeps  his  promise  he'll 
write  an  article  on  it.  What  I'm  interested  in  now 
is  the  Rodin  show.  And  I  tell  you  it'll  be  an  eye- 
opener.  If  the  press  took  so  much  notice  of  the 
Matisse  exhibition,  I  wonder  what  they'll  say  when 
they  see  the  Rodins.  Say,  but  we're  waking  them 
up !"  And  Finch  vented  a  gleeful  laugh. 

"Oh,  the  critics  are  all  in  with  the  dealers," 
snapped  Seaman. 

"Yes,"  jerked  out  Hardy,  thrusting  his  jaw  for- 
ward to  emphasize  his  remark,  "and  the  critics  have 
got  to  look  out  for  the  editors.  Think  of  the  ad- 
vertisers! It  isn't  always  the  critics  that  are  to 
blame." 

"Good  for  you,  my  boy!"  exclaimed  Church. 
"What  between  the  dealer  and  the  editor  it  looks 


156  The  Silver  Age 

as  if  an  art-critic's  life  ought  to  be  quite  a  happy 


one." 


"Happy  as  far  as  the  dealer  is  concerned," 
laughed  Marsh,  "but  what  about  the  editor?" 

"He'd  better  pack  his  grip,"  snorted  Hardy,  "if 
the  editor  catches  him!" 

"Well,  isn't  the  dealer  enough?"  asked  Church. 
"It  looks  to  me  as  if  a  nice  little  nest  might  be 
feathered  from  the  pickings  from  him  alone.  What's 
the  difference  between  a  stock-broker  and  an  art- 
critic?  You  don't  know?  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  One 
deals  in  shares  and  the  other  shares  in  deals."  The 
loud  laugh  that  followed  Church's  reply  was  broken 
into  by  Finch,  who  smilingly  chided  Church  for  his 
levity. 

Weaver  looked  at  Church  with  amused,  meditative 
eyes.  He  had  often  met  the  little  man,  and  had 
always  found  him  quite  the  reverse  of  flippant,  and 
had  enjoyed  his  keen  remarks.  To-day,  mischief 
played  rampant  over  the  mobile,  homely  face.  He 
preferred  the  serious  side  of  him,  however,  and  at- 
tempted to  draw  it  out. 

"Mr.  Church,"  he  said,  in  his  soft,  melancholy 
voice,  "don't  you  find  that  the  critics'  attitude 
toward  art  is  but  on  a  plane  with  the  general  attitude 
of  the  people  of  this  country  toward  all  high 
ideals?" 

Church  turned  quickly  toward  his  questioner,  and 
asked  shortly,  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  everybody  here  does  things,  not  for 
the  sake  of  doing  them  well,  but  for  the  sake  of  the 
money  they  may  get." 

"Well,  what  of  it?     What  are  you  doing  things 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel       157 

for?  Aren't  you  hoping  to  get  money  for  what 
you  do?" 

"In  a  way,  yes;  but  that's  not  my  prime  motive. 
I  paint  a  picture  because  I  love  to  paint.  I  want  to 
re-create  what  I  see  and  feel  so  that  others  may  see 
and  feel  with  me." 

"Well,  if  what  you  see  and  feel  is  worth  seeing 
and  feeling  by  others,  it's  worth  paying  for,  isn't  it?" 

"That's  not  an  answer  to  my  question." 

"Weaver  means,  Church,"  explained  Finch,  "that 
he  would  paint  for  nothing  if  he  could  get  appre- 
ciation. He  is  not  thinking  of  the  money  when  he 
is  doing  his  work." 

"I  know  quite  well  what  Weaver  means.  But  he 
happens  to  have  approached  the  subject  in  a  way 
that  irritates  me,  and  I  am  purposely  ignoring  his 
meaning.  And  besides,  what  Weaver  means  is  not1 
to  the  point  of  his  original  remark.  He  began  by 
an  intended  criticism  of  the  public  for  its  un- 
sympathetic attitude  toward  art  and  all  high  ideals, 
and  he  explained  that  everybody  did  things  for  the 
sake  of  the  money  they  could  get  and  not  for  the 
sake  of  doing  the  work.  In  so  far  as  the  artist  him- 
self is  concerned,  I  confess  I  can't  see  the  difference 
between  working  for  money  and  working  for  fame. 
In  both  cases  his  object  is  other  than  the  mere 
doing,  and  in  each  case  the  object  is  a  sufficiently 
worthy  incentive.  Some  reward,  I  take  it,  is  neces- 
sary to  him,  otherwise  he'd  soon  give  up  working 
altogether;  and  it  is  indifferent  to  me  whether  the 
object  is  material  in  the  shape  of  money,  or  spiritual 
in  the  form  of  fame.  I  am  somewhat  tired  of  this 
belittling  of  money.  It's  a  good  thing  if  you  can 


158  The  Silver  Age 

afford  to  do  your  work  in  order  to  fulfill  your 
genius;  but  artists  are  not  angels;  they  are  creatures 
of  flesh  and  blood,  like  the  rest  of  us,  and  a  good 
home,  a  well-filled  stomach  and  pocket-book,  a 
decent  suit  of  clothes,  and  the  bodily  comforts  that 
money  can  buy  are,  to  my  mind  at  any  rate,  just  as 
necessary  and  just  as  helpful  to  the  artist  as  they  are 
to  the  ordinary  man  in  the  street.  I  have  yet  to 
be  convinced  that  the  right-minded  artist  need  be 
less  an  artist  because  he's  getting  money  for  his 
work.  If  an  artist  wants  to  consider  himself 
superior  to  the  common  wants  of  humanity,  I  can't 
see  why  he  grumbles  at  his  poverty.  Why  blame  the 
public?  What's  the  public  got  to  do  with  your 
motive?  By  all  means,  do  your  work  for  the  work's 
sake;  but  if  the  public  doesn't  want  your  work,  don't 
blame  it  for  not  buying  it.  That's  what  /  mean." 

"Perhaps,  Mr.  Church,  I've  not  quite  made  it 
clear  to  you  what  I  do  mean,"  gently  insisted 
Weaver,  "the  people  place  more  importance  on  the 
money-value  than  they  do  on  the  art-value  of  the 
work.  They  have  no  art-sense;  they  don't  under- 
stand art,  and  they  don't  care  for  it.  It  doesn't 
mean  anything  to  them." 

"What  other  value  would  you  have  them  place 
on  it?  By  your  own  words  they  are  ignorant  and 
uncultured.  They  don't  understand  art,  you  say. 
How  are  they  going  to  understand  it?  And  when 
they  do,  how  are  they  going  to  show  their  apprecia- 
tion of  it  other  than  by  translating  it  into  dollars 
and  cents?  And,  if  we  come  down  to  it,  how  do 
you  understand  art?  How  do  you  distinguish  the 
art-value  of  a  work  from  its  money-value?  Have 
you  a  secret  art-measurer  of  your  own?" 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel       159 

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  chorused  Cockayne,  Hardy, 
Seaman,  and  the  rest. 

"Say,  Church,"  laughed  Cockayne,  "isn't  that 
going  a  bit  too  far?  Surely  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
Art?  And  we  do  know  the  difference  between  true 
Art  and  false  Art!" 

"Very  well,  then;  if  you  know  all  about  it,  what's 
your  test  for  what  you  call  true  Art?  Answer  me 
that!"  And  Church  emphasized  his  question  by  a 
thump  on  the  table. 

A  short  silence  followed.  It  was  broken  by  Finch. 

"That's  rather  a  big  question,  isn't  it,  Church,  to 
answer  off-hand?" 

"We're  discussing  a  big  subject.  Have  you  any 
standard  by  which  to  judge  art;  by  which  you  are 
able  to  say  this  is  good  and  that  is  bad;  or  this  is 
Art  with  a  capital  A,  and  that  is  art  without  the 
capital?" 

"Your  question  is  a  silly  one,  Church,"  replied 
Hardy;  "there  are  many  things  to  be  taken  into  con- 
sideration before  one  can  arrive  at  a  judgment  about 
a  work  of  art.  There  is  technique,  first;  and  there's 
color,  and  composition,  and  form,  and,  above  all, 
there's  the  fulness  of  the  impression  it  is  intended 
to  convey." 

"If  I  might  venture  to  answer  your  question, 
Church,"  said  Cockayne,  "I  should  say  that  a  work 
of  art  must  be  judged  by  its  success  or  failure  to 
realize  Beauty." 

"All  right,  Hardy,  you'll  find  out  soon  enough 
how  silly  my  question  is.  My  answer  to  you, 
Cockayne,  is  that  what  you  say  does  not  help  me, 
because  I  want  to  know  what  you  mean  by  Beauty. 


160  The  Silver  Age 

The  same  difficulty  is  there  as  it  was  before,  only 
youVe  moved  it  from  the  word  Art  to  the  word 
Beauty.  Who  is  to  decide  what  is  Beauty?  How 
are  we  to  measure  it?  The  beauty  revealed  by  a 
Correggio  is  not  the  beauty  revealed  by  a  Velasquez. 
Titian's  'Venus'  and  Rembrandt's  'Lesson  in 
Anatomy'  are  both  works  of  art,  but  the  revelation 
of  beauty  is  altogether  different  in  each.  Besides, 
what  was  beautiful  to  the  painters  of  the  sixteenth 
and  seventeenth  centuries  is  not  beautiful  to  the 
painters  of  the  twentieth  century — just  as  what  was 
once  right  morally  is  now  wrong,  and  vice  versa. 
I  used  to  hear  critics  belittle  Rubens;  but  only  the 
other  day  Stecker  was  dithyrambic  in  his  praise  of 
him.  He  was  the  master  of  them  all,  Stecker  said. 
If  we  are  to  look  to  beauty  to  help  us  we  shall  find 
that  our  standard  of  beauty  keeps  changing  just  as 
our  standards  of  conduct  and  fashion  change." 

"But  we  are  more  eager  now  to  possess  Rem- 
brandts  and  Titians  and  Velasquez  than  ever  we 
were  before,"  remarked  Cockayne.  "Why  do  we 
pay  such  enormous  prices  for  their  pictures  if  we 
did  not  find  them  beautiful?" 

"I  don't  think  we  pay  the  enormous  prices  for 
the  sake  of  their  beauty.  I  think  it's  the  fashion 
just  now  to  want  them.  A  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago  you  could  have  bought  a  car-load  of  Rembrandts 
for  the  price  you'd  have  to  pay  for  one  now.  Ruskin 
thought  Whistler  was  a  charlatan — to-day  many  of 
us  would  scrape  our  last  dollar  to  own  a  Whistler. 
When  Benjamin  West  was  President  of  the  Royal 
Academy  of  London  his  pictures  brought  prices  that 
we  laugh  at.  To-day  you  could  probably  buy  all 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel       161 

the  pictures  he  ever  painted,  that  are  not  stacked 
away  in  stupid  galleries,  for  the  price  he  got  for 
one.  And,  I  suppose  people  in  West's  time  must 
have  thought  them  beautiful — if  that  were  really 
the  standard  by  which  they  then  judged  them.  Did 
Millet's  'Angelus'  have  less  of  beauty  in  it  when  he 
sold  it  for  a  few  hundred  dollars  than  it  has  now 
when  it  would  sell  for  a  hundred  thousand?" 

"The  fact  that  the  people  don't  always  see  the 
beauty  is  no  reason  for  concluding  that  a  painting 
is  not  great  art,"  answered  Cockayne.  "Because  I 
am  blind  is  no  argument  that  the  sun  is  not  shining." 

"That's  true;  but  how  is  one  to  know  when  one 
can  see?  How  is  one  to  recognize  beauty?  One 
man  looks  at  a  Matisse  and  sees  in  it  nothing  but 
what  is  ugly  and  repulsive.  Another  looks  at  it  and 
finds  it  wonderful  in  its  power  to  suggest  the  beauty 
of  the  human  form  and  the  appealing  pathos  of 
human  life.  Who  is  the  seeing  man,  and  who  the 
blind  one?  Who  shall  judge?  I  am  asking  for  a 
standard  by  which  we  all  may  abide.  I  am  search- 
ing for  a  light  by  which  we  all,  ignorant  and  edu- 
cated alike,  may  walk  through  the  dark  mazes  of 
this  art-world.  It's  no  use  going  to  the  critics  and 
writers  on  art;  I  have  found  these  do  not  agree  with 
each  other.  They  are  so  busy  proving  each  other 
foolish  that  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  they  know 
little  more  than  the  rest  of  us." 

"Mr.  Church,"  and  Weaver's  quiet  voice  sounded 
an  authoritative  note,  "Art  is  not  for  the  blind  or 
the  ignorant.  Art  is  for  the  seeing  and  the  knowing. 
Art  is  its  own  standard,  its  own  criterion.  It  is  in- 
dependent of  any  judgment.  Art  is  the  Idea  made 
manifest  as  Beauty." 


1 62  The  Silver  Age 

"Ah,  a  definition  at  last!  Art  is  the  Idea  made 
manifest  as  Beauty!  Excellent,  i'  faith!  If  only  we 
knew  what  the  Idea  was !  Weaver  would  have  it, 
I  take  it,  that  Art  is  a  Divinity  poised  there  in  the 
high  heavens  for  the  worship  and  the  adoration  of 
mankind.  And,  I  suppose,  the  Idea  is  the  private 
revelation  vouchsafed  the  artist  by  this  Divinity? 
And  Beauty,  the  reappearance  of  this  revelation  in 
plastic  form,  eh?" 

Weaver  nodded  eagerly  as  if  pleased  that  he  had 
been  so  well  understood. 

"Well,"  continued  Church,  "I  know  now  why 
we  call  ourselves  Idealists.  I  am  not  saying  that 
Weaver  hasn't  got  hold  of  something.  I  may  come 
back  to  what  he  is  trying  to  say  another  day.  But, 
if  Weaver  is  right,  why  cry  out  against  a  public  that 
doesn't  see  the  Idea  in  the  manifestation?  May 
there  not  be  something  wrong  or  something  wanting 
in  the  manifestor?  How  does  the  artist  himself 
know  he  has  succeeded  in  revealing  the  Idea  as 
Beauty.  We  Idealists  must  be  very  careful  to  keep 
our  feet  on  earth  if  we  would  have  the  public  know 
what  we  are  doing  or  what  we  are  talking  about. 
Aye,  and  if  we  would  be  sure  that  we  ourselves  have 
the  revelation  aright.  For,  however  we  may  refine 
our  thinking,  as  artists  we  have  to  deal  with  the  con- 
crete. Our  most  entrancing  visions  have  to  be  trans- 
lated into  visible  forms  before  they  can  be  seen  by 
others,  and  this  limitation  of  the  medium  is  often 
lost  sight  of  by  artist-dreamers.  Keep  your  feet  on 
earth,  I  say,  and  you  need  not  fear  how  high  you 
stretch  your  head.  The  Beauty  we  talk  of  must 
become  plastic  if  it  is  to  be  realized  at  all." 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel       163 

"If  I  have  answered  your  question,"  interrupted 
Weaver,  "let  me  hear  what  you  have  to  say;  for  it 
is  important  to  me.  What  have  you  to  say  against 
my  original  statement — that  the  people  of  this  coun- 
try value  art  not  for  what  it  is,  in  and  for  itself,  but 
for  what  it  is  worth  in  money.  Perhaps  you  will 
say  that  money  is  the  public's  way  of  estimating 
art?" 

"I  am  coming  to  that,  Weaver,  and  you'll  know 
all  I  mean.  For  the  moment,  I  will  accept  your 
definition,  that  Art  is  the  Idea  made  manifest  as 
Beauty.  I  don't  like  the  definition,  because  it's  sub- 
jective and  not  objective;  because  it  assumes  a 
knowledge  we  haven't  got.  Beauty,  like  those  other 
abstract  terms,  Right,  Justice,  Truth,  is  not  a  self- 
existing  entity,  independent  of  ourselves.  From  my 
point  of  view,  I  would  say  that  Beauty  is  a  state  of 
consciousness.  As  a  state  of  consciousness  it  will 
vary  as  we  vary.  Just  as  the  right,  the  just,  the  true 
of  yesterday  may  not  be  right,  and  just,  and  true 
to-day,  so  what  we  call  beauty  now  may  not  be  the 
beauty  of  the  future.  These  words  are,  after  all, 
but  abstract  terms  for  us.  They  may  or  they  may 
not  stand  for  absolute  realities.  I  confess  I  am 
afraid  of  these  abstractions  that  lead  to  absolute 
realities.  I  never  could  make  out  what  an  absolute 
reality  meant,  if  it  were  not  a  term  to  hide  our 
ignorance  of  what  we  were  talking  about.  I  prefer  to 
be  content  with  the  experience;  because  then  I  am 
talking  about  what  I  know.  And  what  I  know,  and 
what  I  will  stake  my  life  on,  does  exist,  in  my  own 
state  of  consciousness,  my  own  capacity  for  enjoyment. 
I  dare  not  deny  that  or  I  should  deny  life  itself. 


164  The  Silver  Age 

"Keeping  that  in  mind,  I  would  define  art  as  a 
particular  form  of  imparting  pleasure.  And  by 
pleasure  I  mean  not  only  the  evanescent  but  the 
permanent  enjoyments.  This  definition  includes 
every  mode  of  art  expression,  and  allows  for  any 
and  every  possibility  of  delight-giving  experience. 
Under  this  sky  may  play  the  poet,  painter,  and 
musician,  as  well  as  the  actor,  novelist,  and  dancer. 
Each  of  their  arts  is,  if  you  like  to  say  so,  a  revela- 
tion of  the  Idea  made  manifest  as  Beauty,  but  each 
is  better  understood,  and  only  really  known  by  us  as 
a  means  for  joy.  But  I  will  go  further,  and  say, 
that  each  means  nothing,  and  is  worth  nothing,  if  it 
does  not  mean  our  joy." 

"But,"  said  Finch,  "why  quarrel  about  words 
if  both  definitions  lead  to  the  same  result?  Your 
definition  includes  but  one  side  of  art,  and  the  lesser 
side;  Weaver's  is  a  much  more  impressive  one. 
What  you  call  experience  he  raises  to  the  dignity 
of  a  divinity." 

"I  know  it  is  but  one  side  of  it;  but  I  deny  it  is 
the  lesser  side.  It  is  the  only  side  which  can  possibly 
concern  us  as  living  and  working  beings.  I  won't 
deny  Weaver's  definition,  and  I  will  make  you  a 
present  of  its  impressiveness.  I  won't  deny  it,  be- 
cause its  denial,  on  .my  part,  would  mean  that  I 
knew  what  he  was  talking  about.  I  don't  know 
what  he  means  by  the  idea,  or  by  beauty  in  the 
abstract.  And  I  can't  deny  what  I  don't  know. 
But  I  do  know  my  own  sensations  in  front  of  an 
idea,  if  you  like,  made  manifest  as  beautiful.  I  do 
know  when  a  painting  delights  me,  or  a  poet  en- 
thralls me,  or  an  actor  pleases  me,  or  a  musician 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel       165 

enchants  me.  And  I  prefer  to  trust  to  these  ex- 
periences rather  than  to  a  metaphysical  abstraction, 
even  when  raised  to  the  dignity  of  a  divinity.  I  pre- 
fer to  insist  on  them  for  Weaver's  sake  as  well  as 
my  own.  And  by  Weaver,  I  mean  you  all — idealists 
in  creating  as  well  as  idealists  in  criticism;  idealists 
in  art  as  well  as  idealists  in  life.  By  apotheosizing 
your  Beauty  you  are  in  danger  of  becoming  the 
creature  of  the  Frankenstein  you  have  thus  raised. 
Art  is  our  servant  and  not  our  master.  It  is  less 
than  life.  Your  art  is  become  to  you  a  veritable 
autocrat  and  tyrant.  It  dominates  your  minds.  It 
is  the  result  that  counts;  it  is  the  result  that  seals 
the  fate  of  all  work.  Your  art-god  won't  help  you 
there.  You  yourself  are  the  creators.  And  the 
result  is  known  in  terms  of  pleasure — in  the  ex- 
periences of  joy  that  the  work  gives — in  the  delight 
it  imparts  even  to  the  common  public  Weaver  so 
ruthlessly  despises." 

Church  stopped  for  a  moment  to  light  the 
cigarette  that  had  gone  out.  Finch  made  a  move- 
ment as  if  to  say  something,  but  Church  raised  his 
hand. 

"Let  me  go  on,  please,  Finch.  It  is  this  insistence 
on  abstractions  which  makes  bad  idealists  and  bad 
egoists  of  us.  We  think  we  know  it  all  when  we 
have  clothed  our  naked  ignorance  in  the  garment  of 
a  fine-sounding  word  with  a  capital  letter.  We  are 
only  hiding  our  ignorance  and  making  it  look 
ridiculous.  By  all  means,  let  us  be  egoists,  if  our 
egos  may  thereby  be  moved  to  do  something  that 
will  make  the  world  happier,  that  will  give  it  joy 
in  the  thing  done.  But  our  egoism  is  a  vulgar 


1 66  The  Silver  Age 

egotism  and  a  foolish  vanity  if  it  makes  us  despise 
others  because  they  do  not  see  with  us.  And  our 
criticism  of  them  for  not  appreciating  what  we  have 
done,  or  what  we  think  we  may  do,  becomes  childish 
petulance." 

"Weaver  is  not  of  that  kind,"  remonstrated  Finch, 
warmly. 

"But,  Church,"  interposed  Foote,  "how  does  your 
definition  of  art  touch  the  original  criticism  made  by 
Weaver?  I  thought  there  was  a  great  deal  in  what 
he  said." 

"How?  In  every  way.  If  the  artist  succeeds  in 
giving  pleasure  to  a  public  that  doesn't  know,  and, 
by  so  doing,  makes  it  aware  of  beauty,  then  that 
public  must  and  will  recognize  the  service  he  has 
rendered.  It  must,  because  pleasure  is  its  very  life. 
And  it  will  recognize  it  in  the  only  way  it  can  recog- 
nize it  justly — by  paying  him  money.  The  money 
it  thus  gives  is  its  expression  of  appreciation — and 
the  best  expression;  for  it  thereby  renders  the  artist 
independent  of  caprice  and  whim.  It  pays  for 
laughter;  it  pays  for  good  food,  for  good  comedy, 
for  good  music,  for  good  poems,  for  fine  oratory, 
for  amusing  and  pleasing  tales,  for  any  and  all  forms 
of  art  that  arouse  in  it  a  sweeter,  deeper,  and  more 
vivid  sense  of  the  joy  of  life.  That's  what  an  artist 
is  for.  That's  what  a  genius  means — to  be,  with 
the  magic  of  his  creative  imagination,  a  joy-giving 
wizard.  And  how  better  can  the  public  appreciate 
him  than  by  freeing  him  from  sordid  necessities,  that 
he  may  continue  to  give  joy?  I  am  not  saying  that 
the  public  does  not  make  its  own  mistake  about 
money.  It  makes  the  same  mistake  about  Money 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel       167 

that  we  do  about  Beauty — it  writes  it  with  a  capital 
letter — it  apotheosizes  it,  and  so  becomes  the  slave 
of  its  home-made  divinity.  But  before  you  blame 
the  public  for  this  mote  in  its  eye,  had  you  not  better 
first  take  out  the  beam  from  your  own  eyes? 

uThe  public  may  be  ignorant  and  stupid,  but  it  is 
so  only  for  a  time.  Sooner  or  later  it  wakes  up,  and 
when  it  does,  it  is  very  generous — too  generous,  in- 
deed. It  makes  mistakes,  of  course,  but  these  mis- 
takes are  due  rather  to  its  eagerness  to  welcome  the 
slightest  effort  that  is  put  forth  heartily  to  serve  its 
enormous  appetite  for  pleasure,  or  that  will  kindle 
in  its  heart  the  fire  of  a  new  hope.  The  public  will 
give  thousands  for  a  wretchard  daub,  and  may  not 
glance  at  a  work  of  genius.  It  will  lose  its  head 
over  a  facile  black-and-white  draughtsman,  and 
utterly  neglect  the  fine  insight  of  a  caricature  artist. 
It  will  spend  nights  listening  to  a  tawdry  musical- 
comedy,  and  grudge  a  cent  for  a  great  musician. 
But  it  is  not  altogether  to  blame.  Art  is  long  and 
life  is  short.  Besides,  it  can  afford  to  make  mis- 
takes. It  is  very  rich.  And  it  has  plenty  of  time 
— its  own  time  and  posterity's  time,  also.  Later, 
the  daub  will  find  a  forgotten  resting-place  in  the 
lumber  room  of  some  museum;  the  drawings  of  the 
facile  draughtsman  be  jobbed  at  a  junk-shop;  the 
musical-comedy  be  vanished  as  the  snows  of  yester- 
year. Then  the  genius  will  come  into  his  own,  and 
his  work  be  crowned  with  laurels.  The  half-gods 
must  go  before  the  gods  arrive. 

"The  true  artist,  if  he  really  accomplish  great 
work,  cannot  be  denied  his  fame.  It  may  not  come 
to  him  in  his  lifetime;  but  come  it  certainly  will. 


1 68  The  Silver  Age 

And  the  true  artist  must  be  content  to  wait.  How 
long  has  God  been  painting  his  glorious  sunsets  and 
empurpled  hills  for  his  own  joy  to  heedless  and  in- 
different men  and  women?  And  He  still  continues 
to  paint  them.  Now  and  then  there  comes  a  painter 
or  a  poet,  or  a  simple  man  who  sees  with  Him  and 
shares  in  His  joy.  Then  He  is  justified.  The  true 
artist  must  also  be  content  to  paint  for  his  own  joy; 
he  must  be  to  himself  his  own  justification.  But  if 
he  really  accomplish  great  work,  he  will  not  have 
left  out  of  it  this  joy-giving  power.  Let  it  radiate 
this  influence  and  it  will  not  be  ill  with  him  always." 

"Is  he,  in  the  meanwhile,  to  starve?"  asked 
Weaver.  uls  it  right,  that  genius  should  go  hungry, 
while  mediocrity  grows  fat  and  sits  in  the  seats  of 
the  mighty?" 

"There  you  go  again  with  your  4is  it  right?'  For 
the  genius  it  seems  to  be,  and  no  doubt  is,  very 
wrong.  But  have  you  ever  asked  yourself  the 
question:  Why  am  I  a  genius?  Have  you  thought 
what  it  is  to  be  a  genius?  It  is  to  be  filled  with 
joy  that  the  gods  have  chosen  you  to  be  the  instru- 
ment of  their  mighty  purposes.  It  is  to  be  pro- 
foundly and  ecstatically  grateful  in  that  to  you  is 
given  the  power  to  paint  with  the  finger  of  God, 
and  the  gift  to  chant  with  the  everlasting  hills. 
Think  of  this,  and  you  will  not  ask:  Is  it  right?  I 
know  it  is  a  hard  doctrine  I  am  preaching.  But 
creation  is  impossible  without  suffering.  Every 
mother  knows  that.  But,  oh,  the  joy  when  the  child 
is  born!  To  you,  the  genius,  it  is  very  wrong  for 
genius  to  go  hungry;  but  don't  blame  the  public. 
The  public  is  ignorant  of  you.  It  doesn't  yet  know 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel       169 

that  you  are  a  genius — that  you  are  necessary  to  it. 
It  knows  that  the  children  of  mothers  are  neces- 
sary, and,  therefore,  it  builds  hospitals  in  which 
to  tide  the  mothers  over  the  days  of  their  travail. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  it  may  realize  that  the  crea- 
tures of  a  genius's  brain  are  also  necessary  to  it, 
and  then,  it  may  be,  it  will  build  studios  and  homes, 
and  provide  maintenance  for  artists  and  poets  until 
they  shall  have  freed  themselves  from  their  travails. 
Until  that  time  comes  the  genius,  I  am  afraid,  must 
go  hungry,  and  suffer  want  for  many  days. 

"But,  I  am  forgetting.  Didn't  I  understand 
you  to  say  you  were  not  working  for  the  approval 
of  the  public?  Didn't  I  hear  you  despise  their 
money?  Did  I  not  hear  you  say  something  about 
manifesting  the  Idea  in  the  form  of  Beauty?  Then 
why  grumble  and  complain?  Why  seek  his  alms 
and  despise  the  alms-giver?  Why,  above  all,  be 
impatient  if  it  takes  the  public  a  long  time  to  see 
the  beauty?  Is  it  not  taking  you  a  long  time  to 
reveal  it?  Your  power  of  revealing  did  not  come  to 
you  in  a  night.  Be,  for  a  little  while,  grateful 
that  you  have  been  vouchsafed  your  revelation.  Be 
delighted  in  thinking  of  the  joy  you  are  some  day 
going  to  give.  In  the  meantime,  break  stones  on  the 
highway,  if  necessary,  for  a  living,  and  do  your  real 
work  for  your  own  joy.  Let  every  stroke  of  your 
hammer  ring  the  notes  of  a  Marseillaise  for  your 
later  freedom  when  you  shall  have  acquitted  yourself 
in  the  work  God  sent  you  to  do.  In  this  way  you 
will  hasten  the  time  of  your  deliverance  from  the 
fetters  of  chance;  and  you  will  have  achieved  your- 
self the  more  fully  just  because  you  have  suffered 


170  The  Silver  Age 

your  pilgrimage  through  the  valley  of  humiliation. 
Then — and  I  am  presuming  that  you  have  not  your- 
self made  any  mistake  about  yourself — then,  the 
public,  which  you  now  despise,  will  be  only  too 
eager  to  give  you  all  the  time  you  may  need.  Per- 
haps, you  will  tell  me  you  will  not  want  its  help 
then?  Yes,  you  will.  Never  make  that  mistake. 
You  will  want  it  then  even  more  than  you  do  now. 
Now,  your  body  only  is  starving — then,  you  will 
work  that  your  soul  may  not  starve.  And  the 
public's  appreciation  will  be  your  soul's  salvation. 

"Do  not  despise  the  public — neither  its  money 
nor  its  praise.  In  the  last  resort  the  public  is  the 
judgment-seat  of  all  and  every  art.  Its  praise  is 
precious  as  its  sincere  prayer  for  your  generous 
forgiveness  for  the  unthinking  wrong  it  did  you  in 
the  past;  its  money  is  its  acknowledgment  of  the 
wrong  done,  and  its  encouragement  to  you  to  go 
on  fulfilling  yourself  in  the  future.  Yes,  I  plead 
for  the  public;  and  I  plead  especially  for  the  public 
of  these  United  States  which  is  continually  being 
made  the  butt  of  foreign  condescension.  As  if 
other  countries  never  lost  its  geniuses!  As  if  this 
were  the  only  country  in  which  geniuses  found  no 
home!  You  are  wrong  when  you  compare  the 
people  of  this  country,  as  I  have  often  heard  you 
do,  with  the  people  of  France  and  other  European 
countries,  to  its  detriment.  The  people  of  this 
country  are  young  and  in  the  making.  They  are 
busy  making  homes,  and  families,  and  a  nation  for 
themselves.  A  growing  and  a  working  people  have 
less  time  for  enjoyment  than  have  the  aged  and  the 
idle.  In  their  pleasures  they  can  but  ape  their  elders, 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel       171 

and  aping,  show  themselves,  perhaps,  often  ridicu- 
lous, silly,  and  gauche.  But  give  them  time,  and 
they,  too,  will  learn  wisdom,  and  find  a  real  and  liv- 
ing happiness.  The  wonder  is  that  they  do  so  well. 
But  let  them  do  well  or  ill,  you  will  help  them  better, 
not  by  criticizing  and  decrying,  but  by  offering  them 
the  best  you  have.  Help  them  with  your  genius, 
and  so  advance  them  to  a  worthy  place  among  the 
other  civilizations  of  the  world.  If  you  are  a  true 
idealist,  as  well  as  a  true  artist,  that  is  the  least 
you  can  do.  There,  I've  been  twaddling  so  long  that 
I've  far  out-stayed  my  luncheon  hour,  and  I'll  get  a 
wigging  when  I  get  back  to  my  cellar.  Waiter,  my 
check,  please!" 

Church  paid  his  bill,  rose,  nodded  to  all  round  the 
table,  and  made  his  way  to  the  door.  He  had  barely 
reached  it  when  he  turned  round  and  caught 
Weaver's  eye  looking  wistfully  after  him.  He  beck- 
oned, and  Weaver  rose  and  followed  him  into  the 
avenue. 

"Walk  down  with  me,  Weaver,"  he  said  quietly, 
"as  far  as  the  corner  of  the  street  where  my  office 
is.  I  want  to  say  a  few  words  to  you  privately.  I'm 
afraid,  my  boy,  I've  just  been  saying  many  things 
that,  perhaps,  have  hurt  you.  You'll  believe  me,  I 
am  sure,  when  I  tell  you  I  intended  no  discourtesy. 
But  I  was  young  once  myself,  and  if  I  had  had  some 
one  to  talk  to  me  then  as  I  have  been  talking  to  you 
to-day,  I'd  have  been  a  different  man  now.  I'd  have 
done  something.  I  used  to  think  as  you  are  thinking, 
and  all  I  did  was  to  go  on  feeling  angry  and  rebel- 
lious because  others  didn't  see  with  me  what  a  devil 
of  a  fine  fellow  I  was.  It  ended  in  my  frittering 


172  The  Silver  Age 

away  my  time  and  doing  nothing.  I  was  so  ena- 
moured of  my  genius  that  I  thought  it  wasn't  worth 
while  wasting  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air.  Well, 
I  made  a  big  mistake — the  great  mistake  of  my  life. 
Now,  I  think  so  much  of  you  and  what  you  are 
capable  of  doing,  that  I  don't  want  you  to  make  the 
same  mistake.  Remember,  it's  your  work  and  your 
work  only  that  can  justify  you.  I've  heard  you 
long  for  Paris  again;  for  its  sympathy  and  its  help- 
ful companionship.  I  say  to  you,  here  is  your  Paris, 
if  youVe  got  anything  in  you.  If  the  right  stuff  is  in 
you,  produce  it,  and  you'll  be  a  free  man  in  every 
sense.  As  for  sympathy  and  helpful  companionship, 
did  you  ever  get  in  Paris  what  you  got  to-day?  Did 
you  ever  meet  a  Finch  in  Paris?  Did  you  ever  know 
a  friend  there  who  energized  you  without  enervating 
you,  as  you  are  finding  here,  in  this  Philistia  of  a 
New  York?  No,  I  am  sure  you  never  did. 

"Now,  my  boy,  if  you  can't  afford  to  do  the  work 
you  want  to  do,  get  a  job  at  anything  that  will  bring 
you  in  the  price  of  bread  and  cheese  and  a  shelter. 
When  you've  secured  that,  do  your  work  in  your 
spare  time,  in  solitude  and  in  silence.  It  will  bring 
you  your  happiness  in  the  end,  I  am  certain  of  it.  Do 
you  imagine  I  am  happy  grubbing  in  my  hole  in 
the  ground?  But,  'I  still  have  hopes  my  latest  hours 
to  crown,'  and  maybe,  I'll  crown  them  some  day.  For 
the  present,  I  must  grub. 

uLook  at  that  Flatiron  building!  There  it  is, 
stuck  in  the  common  rock.  But,  see,  it  mounts  into 
heaven  itself,  a  thing  of  beauty  its  sordid  builders 
never  dreamed  of  realizing.  The  sky  has  taken  it 


Fifth  Ave.  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel        173 

unto  itself  as  a  part  of  its  own  pageantry.  Let  it  be 
the  symbol  of  your  life. 

"And  look  back  at  this  magnificent  perspective !  It 
breathes  hopes  from  every  tower  and  turret,  and  ends 
in  a  cloud  of  glory.  Let  that  be  the  symbol  of  your 
native  land.  So  long,  Weaver,  my  boy !  Remember, 
here  is  your  Paris!" 

Church  walked  rapidly  away  leaving  Weaver 
standing  at  the  street  corner.  Weaver  followed  the 
little  man  with  his  eyes,  a  soft  beautiful  smile  playing 
around  his  lips,  and  saw  him  disappear  down  the 
steps  of  a  basement.  Turning,  he  slowly  made  his 
way  northward,  thinking,  thinking.  "C'est  un 
homme!"  he  whispered  to  himself.  But  he  was  not 
thinking  of  Cezanne.  He  was  thinking  that,  per- 
haps, it  was  not  too  late  to  find  again  his  youthful 
joy.  He  looked  up  Fifth  Avenue  with  far-seeing 
eyes  and  forgot  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel. 


THE  FAUBOURG  SAINT  BRON-NEX 


175 


THE  FAUBOURG  SAINT  BRON-NEX 

MICHAEL  WEAVER  was  packing  his  easel  and 
paint-box  preparatory  to  going  to  the  coun- 
try. He  had  worked  hard  through  a  winter 
of  more  than  the  usual  severity  and  had  managed 
to  scrape  through  with  a  surplus.  Indeed,  he  had, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  opened  a  bank  account. 
He  had  enough,  so  he  calculated,  to  tide  him  over 
the  summer,  during  which  time  he  intended  to  make 
ready  for  the  next  winter's  exhibition,  when,  if  the 
fates  would  be  but  casually  condescending,  he  might 
sell  a  sufficient  number  of  canvases  to  enable  him  to 
visit  Paris  once  again.  It  was  becoming  more  and 
more  of  a  necessity  that  he  should  see  for  himself 
what  the  newer  men  were  doing  there,  for  there  was 
next  to  nothing  of  their  work  to  be  seen  in  New 
York.  He  had  had  recurring  thoughts  of  Paris  for 
this  year,  and  had  even  made  many  elaborate  cal- 
culations as  to  the  length  of  time  his  money  would 
hold  out,  but  I  had  dissuaded  him  strongly  from  a 
venture  so  fraught  with  risk.  He  showed  me  his 
figures,  but  they  spelt  privation.  Paris  on  two  francs 
and  a  half  a  day  would  be  Paris  no  longer.  True, 
he  had,  once  upon  a  time,  managed  it  on  less,  but 
the  memory  of  those  days,  he  agreed  with  me,  was 
not  very  pleasant  to  recall.  Yes,  he  assented,  it 
would  perhaps  be  wiser  to  postpone  the  pilgrimage 
for  another  year  and  go  into  the  country  this  year. 
So  he  rented  a  flat  in  the  Bronx. 

177 


178  The  Silver  Age 

Certainly  the  Bronx  region  was  not  Fontainbleau, 
nor  yet  St.  Cloud;  but  the  park  was  beautiful  in 
July  and  August,  and  cool  breezes  from  the  Sound 
swept  the  open  spaces.  He  had  always  had  a  senti- 
mental attachment  for  the  district,  ever  since  his 
father  took  him  there,  some  fifteen  years  ago,  for 
a  day's  outing.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  walked 
on  real  country-growing  grass  and  had  seen  great 
stretches  of  blue  sky,  free  of  tenement-house  roofs. 
And  the  air  had  been  so  pure  and  invigorating! 

We — Weaver,  Black,  the  photographer,  and  I — 
were  sitting  gingerly  on  a  folded  truckle-bed  encased 
in  sacking,  in  the  dreary  attic  Weaver  had  lived  in 
for  the  past  eighteen  months.  The  room,  in  its  dis- 
membered state,  presented  a  wretched  appearance 
with  a  gloomy  April  afternoon's  light  streaking 
through  the  high,  narrow  window. 

"This  is  an  awful  place  to  sit  in,  Weaver,"  I  said, 
after  he  had  pushed  his  strapped  easel  beneath  the 
bed.  "Let's  go  to  Black's  studio  and  get  the  girls 
to  give  us  a  cup  of  tea.  Your  things  are  all  ready 
now  for  the  expressman,  and  he  isn't  coming  until 
to-morrow.  What  say  you,  Black?" 

"By  all  means.  Come  along,  Weaver,  we  can't 
give  you  any  more  help.  Come  and  get  the  cobwebs 
brushed  off  you.  And  you  can  tell  us  what  you  said 
to  Lifter,  yesterday." 

"Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  Lifter !  There's  an  ass  for  you,  if 
you  like!"  and  Weaver  crowed  again,  dancing  the 
while  recklessly  round  the  few  feet  of  floor  space  left 
free  of  parcels  and  trunks.  "He  said  he  didn't  know 
what  I  was  driving  at  with  my  pictures.  I  told  him 
I  didn't  care.  I  wasn't  driving  at  him,  anyway.  He 


The  Faubourg  Saint  Bron-nex  179 

didn't  understand  them,  he  said.  I  told  him  I  didn't 
expect  he  could.  I'd  have  been  much  astonished,  I 
said,  if  he  had  understood  them.  You  should  have 
seen  him  look  at  me  with  his  silly,  sickly  smile.  That's 
why  he  roasted  me  in  the  Morning  Blatherer.  You've 
read  the  stuff?  The  same  old  twaddle,  the  same  old 
meaningless  'arty'  jargon.  Sometimes  I  wonder 
if  it  doesn't  nauseate  those  fellows  who  are  com- 
pelled to  drag  out  of  their  insides  the  stringy,  Welsh- 
rabbity  mess  they  call  a  critique." 

"Now,  Weaver,"  I  put  in  soothingly,  "don't  get 
excited.  Lifter's  got  to  earn  his  living,  and  nobody 
cares  a  tinker's  blessing  for  what  he  writes.  I'm 
heartily  sorry  for  any  poor  devil  who  is  chained 
to  such  a  galley.  Let's  get  out  of  here,  and  into 
some  fresh  air." 

"You're  right,"  assented  Weaver  in  a  changed 
voice,  as  we  were  descending  the  creaking  stairs  of 
the  old  house.  "I  am  sorry  for  them,  but  Lifter's  a 
painter !  You  would  think  he  should  know  better." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  his  pictures?"  I  asked,  tak- 
ing in  a  gulp  of  Fourteenth-street  air,  fragrant  with 
the  odors  of  delicatessen  shops. 

"No,"  answered  Weaver,  "I  haven't." 

"Well,  if  you  saw  them  you  wouldn't  wonder  how 
it  is  he  writes  as  he  does.  Here's  our  car!  Get 
aboard,  boys,  and  don't  forget  the  transfers." 

Twenty  minutes  later  we  were  in  Black's  studio, 
comfortably  ensconced  in  armchairs  and  settle.  A 
delightful  change  from  Weaver's  dusty  attic  was  this 
spacious  and  comfortable  roof-room. 

"Now,  Weaver,"  exclaimed  Black,  "tell  us  what 
Lifter  really  wanted  of  you." 


180  The  Silver  Age 

"Oh,  he  came  to  interview  me  about  Post-Impres- 
sionism— hateful  words !  He  said  the  editor  of  The 
Blatherer  had  sent  him.  Everybody  was  talking 
about  Post-Impressionism  and  nobody  knew  what 
they  were  talking  about.  Knowing  that  I  had  been  a 
friend  of  Cezanne,  and  had  worked  with  Henry 
Matisse,  he  thought  I'd  be  the  very  man  to  help 
him." 

"And  did  you?"  I  asked. 

"I  told  him  to  read  Lewis  Hinde's  book.  I  said 
he'd  find  there  all  that  Post-Impressionism  was  not, 
and  if  he'd  write  the  very  opposite,  the  public  would 
at  once  know  what  it  was." 

"What  did  he  say  to  that?" 

"He  took  what  I  said  very  seriously  and  told  me 
he  had  bought  the  book  but  could  make  nothing  of 
it.  It  was  full  of  general  statements  that  might  mean 
anything  and  everything.  Still,  he  said,  it  had  been 
useful,  because  it  had  given  him  the  names  of  the 
artists — fellows  he  had  never  heard  of  in  his  life." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  advised  him  to  get  Meier-Graefe's  study  of 
Paul  Cezanne,  but  he  said  he  couldn't  read  German." 

"Then  you  took  pity  on  him,  eh?  It  would  be  like 
you  to  do  that." 

Wearer  smiled  sheepishly.  "To  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  did.  But  please  remember  I  hadn't  read  the  stuff 
he  printed  this  morning,  or  I'd  have  kicked  him 
down  stairs." 

"That's  all  right,  Weaver,"  I  said,  "what  I  want 
to  know  is  what  you  really  did  say,  and  what  he 
ought  to  have  written.  I'm  seeking  for  light  myself." 

Weaver  rose  from  the  settle  and  placed  his  cup  and 


The  Faubourg  Saint  Bron-nex  181 

saucer  on  a  small  table  near  the  sloping  skylight  win- 
dow. He  did  not  resume  his  seat,  but  began  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  room,  his  hands  behind  his 
back,  with  head  bent  downward.  I  knew  he  was 
preparing  himself  for  a  big  effort,  for  he  appreciated 
nothing  so  much  as  a  sympathetic  audience.  Stop- 
ping suddenly,  he  looked  around  at  us  all,  and  said : 

"I  began  by  telling  him  what  an  artist  was.  An 
artist,  I  said,  observes,  chooses  and  records.  His 
record,  in  the  form  of  a  painting  or  canvas  or  board, 
is  a  plastic  presentation  of  his  choice  of  what  he 
has  observed  in  nature.  To  choose,  for  the  purpose 
of  a  representation,  is  to  perform  the  initial  act  in 
the  process  of  creation.  To  create  is  not  to  make 
something  out  of  nothing — it  is  to  choose  and  to  re- 
arrange so  that  in  the  rearrangement  there  shall 
appear,  in  addition  to  the  objects  chosen,  something 
that  was  not  in  them  before.  This  something  is  the 
vision  the  artist  alone  saw;  and  this  something  his 
art  must  reveal  for  all  to  see. 

"Now  how  does  the  artist  work?  To  draw  an 
outline  of  a  form  and  to  fill  in  that  outline  with 
colors  is  to  do  the  work  of  a  decorator.  Puvis  de 
Chavannes  was  such  a  decorator,  and  very  able.  The 
artist,  however,  does  not  proceed  after  this  fashion. 
He  knows  that  the  mere  juxtaposition  of  any  two 
objects  alters  not  only  the  colors  of  the  objects  but 
their  forms  also.  I  place  a  lemon  next  to  a  blue 
bowl  and  immediately  the  yellow  of  the  lemon  is 
diluted  with  the  blue  color  of  the  bowl,  and  the  blue 
of  the  bowl  is,  in  its  turn,  affected  by  the  yellow  of 
the  lemon.  So  it  is  in  nature;  there  are  no  absolute 
colors,  only  gradations  towards  absolute  colors. 


1 82  The  Silver  Age 

Every  color  is  relative  to  other  colors  near  it.  And 
the  same  is  true  of  every  form.  The  artist  knows 
this.  He  realizes  that  the  forms  of  objects  are  not 
fixed,  not  static,  but  dynamic.  They  seem  to  flow 
and  to  change.  They  actually  do  change,  because 
forms  are  color  masses  and  these  change  with  the 
changing  light  which  falls  on  them.  A  series  of  vari- 
ously colored  objects  thus  become  a  gamut  of  color 
masses,  more  or  less  fluid  in  their  forms.  It  is  a  tone 
series,  analogous  to  a  chromatic  scale  in  music,  not 
definite  things  with  definite  outlines." 

"Bully!"  I  exclaimed.  "I've  never  heard  it  put  so 
clearly.  What  did  Lifter  say  to  that?  Did  he  see 
where  your  explanation  was  leading  to?" 

"He  said  nothing,  but  looked  painfully  puzzled. 
I  went  on  to  make  myself  clearer.  The  artists  of  the 
traditions,  I  said,  by  whom,  I  mean  those  trained  in 
academies  and  schools,  do  not  understand  this  fluid 
quality  in  the  forms  of  objects,  under  the  influence  of 
light.  They  have  been  taught  to  treat  forms  as  rigid 
and  definite  in  outline.  The  result  is  their  painting  is 
never  plastic;  it  is  hard,  flat  and  lifeless,  and  no 
amount  of  shading  will  make  it  other  than  hard,  flat 
and  lifeless.  Their  shading  is  colorless,  being  but 
a  mere  application  of  blacks.  It  is  formless,  with- 
out depth,  because  there  is  no  light  in  it.  The 
great  principle,  namely,  that  light  is  the  creator  of 
forms,  is  unknown  to  them.  They  paint,  utterly 
ignorant  of  the  fact  that  shadows  also  are  due  to 
the  play  of  light,  nay,  they  are  light.  They  work 
as  if  Rembrandt  had  never  lived.  Nature  knows 
no  absolute  black.  It  abhors  black  as  it  does  a 
vacuum. 


The  Faubourg  Saint  Bron-nex  183 

"The  artist  must,  therefore,  look  on  nature  as 
mobile,  as  being  never  at  rest.  No  matter  how  little 
light  there  may  be,  it  is  never  absolutely  absent. 
It  varies  only  in  intensity,  but  it  is  always  present. 
So  that  forms  are  visible  in  the  deepest  shadows,  or, 
if  not  actually  visible  to  the  eye,  their  presence 
should  be  felt  and  suggested.  A  decorator  might 
shade  his  flat  picture,  but  his  shadings  would  look 
like  holes.  And  this  is  what  most  artists  do;  they 
make  holes  instead  of  true  shadow  color-masses — 
that  is  to  say,  forms." 

Weaver  stopped  for  a  moment  and,  looking 
around,  he  smilingly  remarked: 

"You  see,  I  was  purposely  technical  in  my  ex- 
planation, because  I  was  talking  to  a  painter  as  well 
as  an  art  critic.  But  as  I  saw  I  was  making  little 
headway,  I  changed  my  argument.  Mr.  Lifter,  I 
said,  is  it  not  the  prime  object  of  an  artist  to  make 
his  pictures  what  we  call  'alive'  and  meaningful? 
Well,  then,  how  can  a  picture  be  alive,  or  how  can  it 
express  any  meaning,  if  the  painter  fixes  his  objects 
on  the  canvas  as  if  they  had  never  moved?  Look 
at  almost  any  of  the  works  of  the  academicians, 
and  what  do  they  represent?  Either  a  lifeless  hu- 
man figure  or  a  lifeless  landscape  of  nature.  I 
grant  you  they  are  prettily  colored,  but  the  coloring 
is  that  of  flat  decoration,  even  in  the  best  of  them. 
But  stand  before  a  painting  by  Cezanne,  and  imme- 
diately you  are  aware  of  something  strange,  some- 
thing altogether  different  from  the  paintings  you 
have  been  accustomed  to  see.  You  are,  for  a 
moment,  puzzled.  Why?  Because  Cezanne  has 
painted  not  a  fixed,  immovable  nature,  but  a  plastic, 


184  The  Silver  Age 

mobile  nature.  It  is  alive  with  movement,  and  it 
is  so  alive  because  his  forms  almost  melt  into  each 
other.  Study  it  carefully;  give  it  time  to  grow 
on  you,  and  you  will  realize  that  the  man  who  did 
this  thing  was  a  profound  thinker  as  well  as  a 
loving  artist.  The  man  literally  lived  the  thing  he 
painted.  You  call  him  a  post-impressionist,  because 
you  like  to  label  the  new  and  wonderful  fact  by 
some  commonplace  understandable  name.  But  by 
whatever  phrase  you  ticket  him,  Cezanne  is  first 
and  last,  an  artist. 

"Your  so-called  impressionist  recorded  and  fixed 
an  impression.  He  did  no  more  than  the  others 
did,  only  he  gave  his  painting  an  atmosphere  which 
suggested  that  the  record  was  that  of  a  fleeting  im- 
pression. But  his  work  was  just  as  rigid  and  life- 
less as  the  rest.  We,  who  are  proud  to  be  the  fol- 
lowers of  Cezanne,  are  not  concerned  with  impres- 
sions or  post-impressions;  we  are  only  eager  for  life. 
It  is  not  the  momentary  seeming  of  the  fact  we  de- 
sire to  reproduce,  but  the  living,  continuing  fact. 
How  wonderful  would  be  that  painting  which  truly 
expressed  it !  How  difficult  it  is  to  achieve,  only 
those  know  who  have  essayed  the  task.  To  succeed, 
is  to  be  a  creator,  an  artist  in  very  truth.  Here  is 
a  woman's  form.  Shall  the  artist  make  his  picture 
of  it  a  more  or  less  faithful  photograph  of  it,  more 
or  less  prettily  decorated  in  colors?  Not  at  all.  It 
must  be  so  reproduced  on  the  canvas  that  it  shall 
repeat  and  suggest  every  possible  play  of  its  flesh 
and  tissues.  Clothe  it  in  a  robe  and  shall  you 
picture  a  draped  model?  Surely  that  would  be 


The  Faubourg  Saint  Bron-nex  185 

banal!  Shall  you  not,  rather  still  picture  a  living 
form,  but  now  robed  and  with  its  robes  as  an  acci- 
dent, so  to  speak,  or  as  an  adornment  over  which 
the  body  is  master  and  with  which  it  can  do  what 
it  pleases?  It  is  the  living  thing,  not  the  dead  fact, 
that  must  be  the  artist's  inspiration  and  his  goal.  Let 
the  artist  study  his  medium  so  that  he  understands 
its  utmost  limits;  then  let  him  forget  his  medium  so 
that  he  can  show  his  absolute  mastery  of  it.  When 
he  can  do  this  his  medium  will  not  obtrude  itself 
on  the  vision  he  is  revealing.  The  marble  statue 
is  but  dead  stone  if  the  eye  sees  only  the  marble. 
It  will  be  a  work  of  art  when  the  eye  doesn't  realize 
that  it  is  looking  at  a  piece  of  marble,  but  is  ab- 
sorbed in  the  sculptor's  creation.  So  it  is  with  a 
painter  who  has  succeeded  in  achieving  a  plastic  pre- 
sentation in  colors  of  the  vision  of  life  nature  helped 
him  to  see. 

uYou  have  probably  seen  the  work  of  Eugene 
Carrere,  the  man,  Whistler  said,  who  must  have 
been  smoking  in  the  nursery.  Well,  Carrere's  work 
is  the  result  of  a  pre-determined  manner.  He 
sought  to  obtain  movement  by  dissolving  the  out- 
lines of  his  figures  into  the  surrounding  atmosphere. 
Hence  the  smokiness  at  which  Whistler  jeered. 
Carrere  did  not  understand,  or  if  he  did,  he 
did  not  know  how  to  realize  it,  that  movement 
is  in  the  figure,  that  it  is  the  figure's  life,  and 
can  be  expressed  only  by  the  figure.  Indefiniteness 
of  outline  is  but  a  trick,  an  affectation  by  means  of 
which  to  make  up  for  incompetence  in  technique. 
Carrere  saw  what  he  ought  to  do;  but  he  did  not 
know  how  to  do  it.  Twatchmann  got  nearer  to 


1 86  The  Silver  Age 

what  we  are  trying  to  accomplish,  and  his  work 
will  be  highly  prized  in  the  future. 

"Post-Impressionism,  so-called,  is  not  a  return  to 
the  method  of  the  primitives.  It  is  a  return,  if 
you  like  to  say  so,  to  the  spirit  of  the  primitives. 
The  primitives  had  an  exquisite  love  for  their  art. 
They  felt  the  lovely  spirit  of  the  beauty  in  nature, 
and  with  true  childlike  simplicity  they  sought  to  re- 
produce that  spirit.  They  couldn't  draw,  but  this 
inability  actually  helped  them.  They  were  not  im- 
peded by  art  conventions  in  their  direct  attempt  to 
reproduce  the  things  they  loved.  Their  technique 
was  thus  subordinate  to  the  expression  of  their 
emotions.  It  is  otherwise  with  the  modern  accom- 
plished artist-draughtsman  who,  if  he  has  an  aim, 
subordinates  it  to  his  technique.  He  is  compelled 
to  do  this  because  he  is  not  master  of  his  tech- 
nique— he  is  a  slave  to  it.  In  other  words,  he  is, 
at  best,  but  an  able  craftsman.  But  the  Post-Im- 
pressionist knows  how  to  draw  and  how  to  paint. 
He  has  studied  and  labored  in  the  schools.  But — 
and  here's  the  tremendous  difference  between  him 
and  the  academician — he  of  set  purpose,  compels 
his  craft  to  serve  him  in  his  art.  Not  that  he  has 
as  yet  accomplished  what  he  is  trying  to  do,  but  most 
certainly  he  has  demonstrated  what  the  artist  must 
do  if  painting  is  to  be  art  in  the  only  sense  in  which 
the  word  means  anything. 

"Art,  if  it  have  a  value  at  all,  is  valuable  because 
it  is  a  reproduction  by  human  effort  of  the  beauty 
in  nature.  It  is  man's  embodied  presentation  in 
various  media  of  his  emotional  experiences  of  life. 
I  maintain  that  such  a  result  is  not  only  unobtain- 


The  Faubourg  Saint  Bron-nex  187 

able,  but  is  actually  made  impossible  by  academic 
methods.  For  these  methods  lay  stress  on  just 
those  elements  of  art  which  are  but  the  means  and 
not  the  end  of  art.  Schools  by  the  thousand  send 
out  annually  their  regiments  of  prize-winners  in 
drawing,  painting  and  sculpture.  What  do  they  do 
after  they  leave  the  schools?  Are  they  not  re- 
peating the  formulas  they  learned  by  rote  under  the 
teachers?  What  else  can  they  be  expected  to  do 
when  the  prize  is  given,  not  to  the  genius  who  dares 
to  swerve  from  established  rules,  but  to  the  accom- 
plished master  of  conventions?  He  has  drawn 
from  'the  life'  an  accurate  and  dry-as-dust  repro- 
duction so  often,  and  has  been  kept  down  to  the 
accuracy  and  dry-as-dustery  of  the  method  by  so 
many  maxims  and  measuring  standards  that  he  has 
lost  what  individuality  of  point-of-view  he  may 
have  possessed.  You  can't  expect  him  ever  to  see 
visions,  let  alone  try  to  realize  them  in  plastic  forms. 
His  forms  never  are  plastic.  They  are  always 
"models." 

"Now  what  of  beauty  and  what  emotional  ex- 
periences can  such  a  prize-winner  know?  Why,  he 
sees  everything  unrelated — each  object  is  a  thing 
in  itself.  That  is  why  his  painting  is  dead.  The 
post-impressionist  steps  in  here  and  says:  'Yes,  it  is 
well  that  you  can  draw  and  that  you  know  how  to 
use  your  paint  and  brushes;  but  these  accomplish- 
ments are  but  the  beginning  of  your  real  work. 
Your  real  work  is  to  paint  pictures  that  are  repro- 
ductions of  your  experiences  of  life — pictures  that 
are  not  flat  and  colored  models,  but  are  the  living, 
palpitating  beings — pictures  that  are  not  hard  and 


1 88  The  Silver  Age 

accurately  measured  designs,  but  that  are  tender  and 
lovely  and  delightful,  or  strong  and  impressive  and 
stirring.  You  are  the  creator.  It  is  up  to  you  to 
remelt  the  crude  ore  of  objective  facts,  and,  in  the 
alembic  of  your  creative  imagination,  precipitate,  by 
your  art,  a  new  vision  of  beauty  that  all  can  appre- 
ciate and  take  joy  in. 

"You  may  tell  me  that  you  see  no  beauty  and 
can  take  no  joy  in  the  works  of  Gauguin,  Van 
Gogh,  Matisse,  Picasso,  Cezanne  and  the  rest. 
Well,  I  answer  that  you  do  not  understand  what 
they  are  trying  to  do.  You  are  to-day  in  the  same 
position  with  reference  to  them  that  the  art  critics 
were  to  Greco,  Goya,  Manet  and  Whistler  a  genera- 
tion or  two  back.  The  work  of  the  more  modern 
men  is  but  the  evolution  of  what  these  men  felt 
should  be  done  and  what  they  tried  to  do.  You 
may  not  see  it,  but  a  future  Blathercr  will,  and 
he'll  write  the  same  fulsome  twaddle  of  them  that 
you  are  now  scribbling  about  the  men  who  are  dead 
and  whom  it  is  the  fashion  to  collect." 

Weaver  looked  up  at  us  with  flushed  face  and 
brightened  eyes.  He  paused  a  moment  and  then 
smiled  as  he  said: 

"Then  I  said  to  him:  'Good  morning,  Mr. 
Lifter.  You  haven't,  I  know,  understood  a  word 
of  what  I  have  been  saying  to  you — but  I  thank 
you,  all  the  same,  for  I've  enjoyed  myself  im- 
mensely.' ' 

"Ha!  Ha!  Ha!"  Black  and  I  chorused  to- 
gether. 

"Say,  Weaver,"  I  said,  "do  you  know  that  what 


The  Faubourg  Saint  Bron-nex  189 

youVe  been  telling  us  this  afternoon  is  worth  writ- 
ing down?  Will  you  let  me  do  it?" 

"I  shall  be  delighted.  I  think  you'll  do  it  better 
than  Lifter  did." 

That  is  how  I  came  to  write  this  story. 

The  next  morning  I  was  at  Black's  studio  to 
read  him  my  screed.  I  happened  to  look  out  of 
the  window,  facing  the  avenue,  when  a  sight  pre- 
sented itself  below  me  that  made  me  jump  back 
with  a  roar. 

"Black!"  I  exclaimed,  "quick,  come  and  look  at 
this!" 

Black  rushed  to  the  window,  his  photographer's 
cloth  trailing  from  his  shoulders.  I  pointed  mutely 
to  the  street.  There  below  an  express  wagon  was 
ambling  along  with  a  sleepy  driver  behind  the 
horse.  On  top  of  a  mass  of  bundles,  parcels  and 
wrapped-up  furniture  sat  Weaver,  looking  up  at  the 
sky,  lost  to  everything,  a  dreamy  smile  playing  about 
his  placid  face.  The  town-sparrow  was  migrating 
to  the  country  to  his  splendid  flat  of  two  rooms  and 
a  bath  in  the  Faubourg  Saint  Bron-nex. 

"He  is  going  to  gather  the  lilacs  of  Paris,"  I 
murmured. 

"And  he'll  find  them,"  said  Black,  "even  in  the 
Bronx." 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE 
GOLDEN  DISK 


AT   THE    SIGN   OF   THE    GOLDEN    DISK 

IT  is  May  in  New  York,  and  May  in  New  York  is 
the  most  alluring  month  of  the  year  in  any  city 
of  the  world.  The  short-lived  spring  is  then 
about  to  burgeon  into  summer,  and  the  place  is  a 
delight  to  the  eye  and  an  enchantment  to  the  heart. 
The  squares  and  the  Park  are  brilliant  with  the 
green  of  the  tender  grass  and  the  young  foliage — 
first  fruits  of  the  rich  harvest  to  come.  The  blue  of 
the  sky  is  deep  and  as  if  palpable  through  the  clear 
crystal  air.  The  winds  blow  cool  still,  and  play 
wooingly  and  amorously  with  the  dainty  dresses  of 
the  girls  and  women  who  are  taking  their  afternoon 
promenades  on  Fifth  Avenue.  Sidewalks  and  road- 
way are  the  field  of  a  moving  kaleidoscope  of  colors 
and  forms.  The  faces  of  the  people  wear  an  alert- 
ness and  a  liveliness  of  expression  that  tells  of  an 
acceleration  of  vitality.  Women  put  on  a  carriage 
in  their  gait  as  if  inviting  admiration  and  challenging 
engagement;  men  square  their  shoulders  and  expand 
as  though  preparing  to  accept  the  challenge.  "Yes," 
they  all  seem  to  be  saying,  "we  are  still  young  and 
willing  to  share  in  the  gladness  of  the  re-awakening 
year." 

Michael  Weaver  had  come  down  from  his  fourth- 
story  eyrie  in  Fourteenth  Street  and  found  himself 
in  the  square  of  the  Plaza,  gazing  wonderingly 
about  him.  He,  too,  was  under  the  spell  of  the 

193 


194  The  Silver  Age 

season,  and  was  overcome  by  a  longing  unutterable 
to  open  his  heart  to  a  friend.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  was  radiating  streams  of  magnetic  force  in 
an  aching  desire  for  companionship.  Never  be- 
fore, so  far  as  he  could  remember,  had  he  felt  the 
sense  of  loneliness  he  was  conscious  of  now.  In 
Paris  there  had  been  Jorn  and  Gamier,  Matisse 
and  Cezanne,  to  whom  he  could  go  for  a  chat  that 
would  help  him  and  enhance  him  with  hope.  But 
in  New  York  the  few  he  knew  were  too  busy,  all 
absorbed  in  driving  the  wheels  of  machines.  In 
Paris,  too,  there  had  been  Angele,  dainty  and  win- 
some Angele,  with  her  soft  eyes  and  the  voice  of  a 
singing-bird.  He  trembled  a  little  as  he  thought 
of  her.  There  was  no  Angele  in  New  York. 

"O,  how  the  spring  of  love  resembleth 

The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day; 
Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 
And,  by  and  by,  a  cloud  takes  all  away." 

The  cloud  of  failure  had  taken  everything  away 
from  him.  Since  that  memorable  day  when  Church 
had  talked  to  him  so  earnestly  about  his  career  as 
an  artist,  he  had  taken  his  friend's  words  to  heart, 
and  had  managed  to  eke  out  a  living  by  doing  odd 
jobs  at  interior  decorating.  He  had  even  saved 
enough  money  to  warrant  him  in  nursing  the  vision 
of  a  studio  of  his  own,  not  pretentious,  of  course, 
but  where  he  could  exhibit  his  work  with  some  ap- 
proach to  dignity.  At  present,  however,  he  was 
one  of  the  great  army,  enforced  to  take  the  air  with 
the  freedom  of  an  unchartered  libertine.  He  smiled 
at  the  self-jeering  phrase  and  looked  up  at  the  great 
white  facade  of  the  Hotel  Plaza.  There  dwelt  the 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Golden  Disk        195 

chartered  libertines,  he  thought,  the  people  who  had 
grown  big  by  means  of  the  possessive  instinct,  while 
in  him  played  rampant  the  impoverishing  creative 
instinct.  Well,  he  would  labor  and  wait,  for  surely 
the  time  would  come  which  would  justify  him  in  his 
ways  and  faith. 

Stepping  briskly  across  the  square,  he  entered 
the  Park  and  walked  with  eager  haste  to  the  Mall. 
He  had  often  found  peace  there  when  he  had  per- 
mitted the  beauty  of  the  framed  landscape,  seen 
from  the  terrace,  to  pervade  his  troubled  spirit.  He 
sat  down  on  a  stone  seat,  glad  to  find  no  one  about. 
Ah!  how  good  it  was  to  be  just  alive!  He  looked 
up  at  the  swaying  roof  of  leaves  through  the  blue 
openings  in  which  the  sunlight  came  in  bars  of  gold 
dust.  What  was  the  matter  with  him?  Why  had 
he  not  made  good?  Church  must  be  right;  the 
trouble  was  not  with  the  world  but  with  himself. 
He  was  asking  too  much  from  it.  How  could  it 
know  of  him  if  he  did  not  prove  his  worth?  He 
must  be  kind  and  teach  it  the  message  he  was  bring- 
ing to  it.  But  what  was  this  message?  Truth  in 
the  form  of  Beauty!  The  world  had  heard  these 
words  too  often  and  had  found  them  to  be  mere 
catch  phrases  in  the  mouths  of  charlatans.  How 
could  he  present  them  so  that  it  would  listen  re- 
freshed? Yet,  that  was  his  job,  and,  come  what 
may,  he  would  stick  to  it.  His  art  had  been  his 
father,  mother,  and  only  love.  He  had  left  his 
home  for  it  and  had  lived  alone  for  it.  He  would 
be  true  to  himself  in  spite  of  what  Church  had  said. 
To  give  up  after  all  his  labors  and  suffering  would 
be  to  confess  himself  beaten,  another  futilitarian. 


196  The  Silver  Age 

Oh,  for  the  magic  word  to  put  a  new  spirit  into  the 
hearts  of  the  people! 

A  feeling  of  great  weariness  came  over  him  as  he 
sat  thus  musing.  He  leaned  back  to  allow  the 
gracious  solitude  of  the  wooded  place  to  soothe  him. 
The  eye-healing  green  of  the  shimmering  landscape 
affected  him  drowsily,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  were 
once  again  in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau  with 
Angele.  She  was  looking  very  pretty  in  her  dainty 
frock,  and  he  noted  with  pleasure  her  tiny  slippered 
feet  as  she  ran  from  tree  to  tree.  Then  his  eyes 
opened,  and  for  a  moment  he  knew  not  what  to 
make  of  it.  A  young  woman  stood  bending  smilingly 
over  him.  As  though  in  a  dream  he  saw  her  face 
framed  in  a  golden  aureole  of  hair  beneath  a  large 
broad-brimmed  hat.  It  was  a  beautiful  face,  but  not 
that  of  Angele,  and  yet  it  was  familiar  to  him.  The 
next  moment  he  had  jumped  up  from  his  seat  and 
exclaimed: 

"Miss  Rankin!" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Weaver.  Are  you  angry  that  I  dis- 
turbed you?"  The  girl's  blue  eyes  shone  mischiev- 
ously. 

"I  beg  a  thousand  pardons.  I  must  have  fallen 
asleep.  I  was  tired  and  the  place  is  very  restful. 
It  must  be  late." 

"It  is,  if  you  are  going  to  the  meeting  at  the 
Golden  Disk.  Are  you?" 

"I  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  Church  is  to 
speak,  isn't  he?  Are  you  going?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Then  if  I  may  I  will  walk  with  you." 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Golden  Disk        197 

The  two  strolled  together  along  the  leafy  road- 
way to  the  Plaza,  Weaver  stepping  in  time  to  the 
gait  of  the  graceful  girl  as  if  treading  on  air.  He 
smiled  as  he  felt  her  silk  skirt  brushing  against 
him,  and  his  eyes  took  in  the  curves  of  her  full- 
bodied  womanhood  with  pleasing  appreciation.  In 
the  deepening  glow  of  the  afternoon's  light  the  olive 
green  of  her  dress  took  on  an  autumnal  tint  which 
gave  her  an  added  charm.  He  had  met  Miss  Ran- 
kin  on  several  occasions  at  the  Golden  Disk  meet- 
ings, but  she  had  always  moved  him  to  an  inexpli- 
cable feeling  of  regret.  Her  unaffected  vivacity 
and  splendid  beauty  seemed  to  him  to  belong  to  an 
order  of  beings  far  above  him.  And  yet  she  had 
expressed  herself  as.  greatly  interested  in  his  art, 
though  she  confessed  she  did  not  understand  it.  He 
had  tried  to  explain,  but  he  never  spoke  to  her  with- 
out feeling  that  he  was  obtruding.  Somehow,  her 
personality  made  him  conscious  of  his  failure  in  life. 
He  felt  her  as  a  challenge,  and  he  could  not  quite 
see  how  he  could  answer  it.  He  glanced  admiringly 
at  the  cameo-like  profile  of  the  finely  chiseled  face 
and  the  shapely  suede-gloved  hands. 

"What  are  you  reading?"  he  asked  timidly,  point- 
ing to  the  book  she  was  carrying. 

"Vachel  Lindsay's  'A  Handy  Guide  for  Beggars.' 
Have  you  read  it?" 

"No,  he  answered  quietly,  "I  am  sorry  to  say  I 
read  very  little.  But  what  a  curious  title?  What's 
it  about  ?  I  am  interested  in  beggars.  I  am  one  my- 
self," he  added  with  a  plaintive  smile. 

"I  think  you'd  know  better  than  I  could  ever  tell 


198  The  Silver  Age 

you,  if.  you  read  it.  But  Mr.  Church  is  an  admirer 
of  Mr.  Lindsay  and  may  refer  to  it  this  afternoon." 

"Indeed,  I  am  glad  then  that  you  reminded  me  of 
the  meeting." 

"His  talk  is  to  be  about  distinction  in  literature." 

"What  has  literature  to  do  with  beggars?  I 
don't  see  the  connection." 

"That's  what  Mr.  Church  will  explain,  I  have 
no  doubt.  Mr.  Lindsay  is  a  poet,  and  he  tramped 
about  the  country  distributing  a  little  tract  on  the 
Gospel  of  Beauty  he  had  printed,  and  earning  his 
living  as  a  farm  laborer.  He  also  exchanged  for 
meals  copies  of  a  booklet  he  wrote  which  he  calls 
'Rhymes  to  Be  Traded  for  Bread.'  " 

"What  an  extraordinary  proceeding!" 

"Wasn't  it?  Here  is  what  the  tract  says:  I  come 
to  you  penniless  and  afoot,  to  bring  a  message.  I 
am  starting  a  new  religious  idea.  The  idea  does 
not  say  "no"  to  any  creed  that  you  have  heard  .  .  . 
After  this,  let  the  denomination  to  which  you  now 
belong  be  called  in  your  heart  "The  Church  of 
Beauty"  or  "The  Church  of  the  open  sky"  .  .  .  The 
Church  of  Beauty  has  two  sides:  The  love  of  Beauty 
and  the  love  of  God.  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"I  think  it's  astonishing.  Why,  he  says  what  I've 
been  thinking  for  years  but  didn't  know  how  to  say. 
What  does  he  mean  by  beauty?" 

"He's  not  given  to  definitions;  but  he  writes 
poems  that  are  beautiful.  That's  better,  don't  you 
think?" 

"Far  better.  The  man's  evidently  an  artist.  I'll 
be  keenly  interested  in  what  Church  has  to  say 
about  him." 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Golden  Disk       199 

They  had  arrived  by  this  time  at  a  narrow  brown- 
stone  house,  and  entering  the  hall-way  they  stepped 
into  a  tiny  elevator  and  were  taken  up  lazily  to  the 
fourth  floor.  A  short  creaking  passage  led  to  a 
doorway  from  which  came  a  murmur  of  many 
voices.  In  the  room  they  entered  about  a  dozen 
men  were  seated  about  it,  on  armchairs,  sofas  and 
lounges.  By  the  window  stood  a  quaint  desk  at 
which  sat  a  man  on  a  high-backed  oak  seat,  whose 
shock  of  grey  hair  they  recognized  as  Finch's.  Near 
him,  in  a  wide  armchair,  Church  lay  curled  up. 
No  one  took  any  notice  of  the  newcomers,  who 
found  places  for  themselves  where  they  could,  while 
the  conversation  went  on  in  the  gloaming  of  the 
dying  day.  Suddenly,  a  voice  cried  out:  "Switch 
on  the  lights,  Finch;  it's  time  we  began." 

In  the  dim  light  of  a  couple  of  electric  table- 
lamps,  Miss  Rankin  saw  that  she  was  sitting  be- 
tween Hardy,  the  art  critic,  and  Stuyvesant  Marsh, 
the  collector.  Weaver  was  occupying  a  stool  near 
Healey,  who  wore  his  usual  plaintive  smile.  Foote, 
Aiterre  and  Hewitt  lay  sprawling  on  a  lounge,  while 
on  a  settee  sat  Barca  drawing  a  caricature  of  Church, 
who  was  huddled  up  in  his  chair  smoking  a  cigar- 
ette. 

Without  any  attempt  at  formality,  Finch  called 
them  all  to  order.  "I  asked  Church  to  talk  to  us 
this  evening,"  he  said,  "so  that  we  might  have  the 
opportunity  of  discussing  his  theories  with  him.  He 
has  something  to  tell  us,  which,  I  think,  is  worth 
hearing.  Now,  Church,  fire  away." 

The  figure   in  the   armchair  uncurled  itself  and 


200  The  Silver  Age 

showed  a  big  head  with  a  broad  brow.  Without 
rising  and  taking  the  cigarette  from  his  mouth, 
Church  began  in  a  soft,  even  tone  of  pleasing  qual- 
ity: 

"I  have  chosen  literature  as  the  subject  of  my 
talk  because,  of  all  the  arts,  it  is  the  one  most  easily 
transmitted  and  the  most  direct  in  its  appeal.  It  is 
not  limited  as  are  architecture,  sculpture  and  paint- 
ing to  the  comparatively  small  place  of  exhibition. 
The  printing  press  has  given  it  wings  to  fly  to  the 
farthest  countries  and  visit  the  loneliest  corners  of 
the  world.  Moreover,  it  not  only  reveals  the  vision 
of  beauty,  but  is  a  guide  to  those  who,  though 
gifted  with  the  power  of  seeing,  are  unable  to  re- 
veal what  they  see.  It  helps  the  artist  to  become 
articulate,  and  tells  what  it  is  for  our  deepest  needs 
to  know.  It  is  the  most  democratic  of  all  the  arts, 
for  it  speaks  to  all,  without  regard  to  station  or 
creed  or  birth,  who  can  read  and  who  have  a  living 
spirit. 

"It  is,  therefore,  a  matter  of  great  importance, 
that  those  who  take  upon  themselves  the  business  of 
writing  should  be  highly  mindful  of  their  duties  and 
highly  moved  in  their  fulfilment  of  them.  In  these 
days  of  free  education  many  believe  themselves  to 
be  called,  but  the  results  of  their  activities  prove 
that  few  have  been  really  chosen.  My  purpose  is 
to  point  out  the  qualities  which  must  be  possessed 
by  those  who  aim  at  distinction  in  literature. 

"The  basis  of  distinction  in  literature  offers  two 
aspects  for  consideration — the  matter  of  literature 
and  the  manner  in  which  that  matter  is  presented. 
I  shall  deal  for  the  present  with  the  matter,  because 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Golden  Disk       201 

on  the  choice  of  subject  depends  the  value  of  the 
literary  work  as  a  contribution  to  life.  The  man- 
ner also  will  be  affected  by  the  choice,  for  if  the 
choice  be  sincere  and  inevitable  on  the  part  of  the 
writer,  its  presentation  must,  necessarily,  reflect  the 
man  and  give  his  style.  So  that  both  matter  and 
manner  depend  on  personal  insight  and  sincerity. 

"If  I  were  to  put  into  a  sentence  what  I  consider 
to  be  the  one  essential  to  distinction  in  literary  ex- 
pression, I  should  quote  the  words  of  St.  Paul  to 
the  Corinthians:  'If  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of 
men  and  angels,  but  have  not  love,  I  am  become 
sounding  brass,  or  a  clanging  cymbal.' 

"But  what  is  literature? 

"Literature  is  the  embodiment  of  the  results  of 
the  exercise  of  the  creative  imagination  in  language 
that  is  revealing,  fulfilling,  and  musical.  In  other 
words,  it  is  one  of  the  forms  of  Art  by  which  we 
express  Truth  as  Beauty. 

"I  use  these  much-abused  words,  not  in  a  tran- 
scendental but  in  a  real  sense. 

"Truth  is  the  revelation  vouchsafed  us  when  we 
are  in  love — in  love  with  the  things  of  the  universe 
as  well  as  in  love  with  our  fellow  beings.  We 
know  truth  in  no  other  way.  Copernicus  and  New- 
ton, Buddha  and  Jesus  are  types  of  truth  revealers 
through  love. 

"Beauty  is  that  form  we  give  to  the  revelation 
which  is  a  permanent  possibility  for  joy. 

"When  the  Psalmist  wrote: 

'The  Heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God; 
And  the  firmament  showeth  His  handiwork; 
Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech, 
And  night  unto  night  showeth  knowledge.' 


2O2  The  Silver  Age 

the  Psalmist  was  in  love  with  the  universe,  and  the 
revelation  he  presents  is  expressed  in  language  that 
is  fulfilling  and  musical,  and  which  it  is  our  joy  to 
read. 

"William  Blake,  when  he  wrote  his  'Cradle  Song,' 
was  in  love  with  the  children  of  humanity,  and  the 
expression  of  the  workings  of  his  creative  imagina- 
tion is  a  revelation  that  is  fulfilling^,  musical  and 
profoundly  affecting. 

'Sleep,  sleep,  beauty  bright, 
Dreaming  in  the  joys  of  night: 
Sleep,  sleep  in  thy  sleep 
Little  sorrows  sit  and  weep. 

Sweet  babe,  in  thy  face 
Soft  desires  I  can  trace, 
Secret  joys  and  secret  smiles, 
Little  pretty  infant  wiles. 

As  thy  softest  limbs  I  feel, 
Smiles  as  of  the  mqrning  steal 
O'er  thy  cheek,  and  o'er  thy  breast 
When  thy  little  heart  doth  rest. 

O  the  cunning  wiles  that  weep 
In  thy  little  heart  asleep! 
When  thy  little  heart  doth  wake 
Then  the  dreadful  night  shall  break.* 

"This  is  love's  revelation  of  the  truth  expressed 
in  language  which,  despite  its  sorrow-charged 
thought,  is  a  permanent  possibility  for  joy. 

"Our  deepest  sorrows  spring  also  from  love;  they 
are  the  passion  flowers  of  love — of  love  unrequited, 
of  love  indignant,  of  love  frustrated,  of  love  barren. 
So  that  the  literature  of  grief — the  grief  that  com- 
panions our  unachieved  aspirations — is  also  fulfill- 
ing and  revealing.  Of  such  literature  is  Shakes- 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Golden  Disk       203 

peare's  Hamlet,  the  tragedy  of  an  unstable  mind 
unable  to  redeem  itself  from  the  great  burden  laid 
upon  it  by  circumstance.  Of  such  also  is  King  Lear, 
that  revealing  poem  of  love  frustrated  and  love  in- 
dignant. Shakespeare  was  in  love  with  these  men 
or  he  could  not  have  given  us  their  revelations. 
Balzac  was  in  love  with  Pere  Goriot  and  Cousin 
Bette,  as  was  Browning  with  Abt  Vogler  and  Rabbi 
ben  Ezra  and  the  people  of  'The  Ring  and  the 
Book.'  Heart-breaking  as  these  writings  are,  they 
are  transfigured  into  beauty  by  the  light  of  love 
shining  from  their  creator's  hearts,  and  the  star  of 
hope  gleams  guidingly  through  the  dark  clouds  that 
rise  up  from  the  seas  of  their  embracing  thought. 

"A  writer  who  is  without  the  sympathetic  insight 
that  is  love's  magical  power,  may  be  amusing  and 
interesting,  but  he  will  never  achieve  distinction  in 
his  work.  He  will  have  nothing  new  to  tell  us,  and 
nothing  strangely  beautiful  to  reveal.  Nature,  as 
well  as  human  nature,  is  cold  and  unresponsive  to 
the  merely  curious  or  the  dillettante.  She  will  tell 
us  none  of  her  secrets  if  we  do  not  open  our  hearts 
to  her;  and  intimacy  of  communion  with  our  fel- 
lows will  be  dfnied  to  us  if  we  are  not  "tender  to 
the  spirit  touch  of  man's  or  maiden's  eye."  And 
all  our  academic  cleverness  and  astuteness  will  avail 
us  naught,  for  our  stereotyped  and  barren  speech 
will  be  tray  us,  and  bear  witness  against  us  that  we 
are  not  of  those  who  have  been  chosen. 

"The  writings  of  the  so-called  realists  do  not  con- 
tribute to  our  spiritual  enjoyment  and  enhancement 
because  they  are  loveless.  The  truth  in  them  is  but 


204  The  Silver  Age 

a  half-truth;  it  is  not  a  revelation,  nor  is  its  expres- 
sion either  fulfilling  or  joy-giving,  for  not  a  single 
ray  of  love's  light  transfigures  the  volumes  of  smoke 
that  rise  up  from  their  baleful  fires.  And  they  jar 
on  us  distressingly.  They  may  speak  with  the 
tongues  of  men  and  angels,  but  they  have  not  love, 
and  so  they  are  as  sounding  brass  or  a  clanging 
cymbal. 

"Literature  is  an  interpretative  revelation  of  life 
for  the  purpose  of  a  truer  life.  It  is  the  outcome  of 
a  looking  'before  and  after  and  pining  for  what  is 
not';  of  a  yearning  for  something  nobler;  of  an  as- 
piration for  the  realization  of  ideals;  of  an  affirma- 
tion of  fulfilment.  We  write  literature  when  we 
begin  to  experience  either  great  joy  or  profound 
sorrow;  when  we  are  realizing  that  our  utilitarian- 
ism is  becoming  largely  futilitarianism.  At  such 
times  we  are  aware  that  the  one  reality  is  that  of 
the  spirit.  In  joy  we  know  it,  and  in  sorrow  we 
seek  it.  These  spiritual  states  are  due  either  to  love 
fulfilled  or  to  love  denied.  We  then  find  ourselves 
impelled  to  expressions  of  affirmation  or  aspiration. 

"Now  the  literature  of  any  age  is  but  the  reflex 
of  the  spirit  of  that  age.  The  spirit  of  America  of 
late  years  has  been  one  of  moods  rather  than  of  es- 
sential being.  We  are  a  nation  in  the  making  and 
are,  therefore,  more  concerned  with  obtaining  utili- 
tarian advantages  and  guarding  ourselves  against 
economic  dangers,  than  we  are  with  realizing 
dreams.  We  desire  to  be  assured  in  our  possessions, 
to  be  at  liberty  to  enjoy  them  in  comfort,  and  to  be 
amused.  The  satisfaction  of  such  wants  is  not  the 
province  of  literature,  but  of  journalism;  and  in 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Golden  Disk       205 

this  respect  we  are  amply  served  by  our  newspapers 
and  magazines. 

"In  these  forms  of  literary  expression  America 
excels,  and  they  have  assisted  in  developing  in  us  an 
extraordinary  quickness  of  wit  and  alertness  of  men- 
tality. But  we  have  paid  a  big  price  for  these 
qualities.  We  are  remarkably  intelligent,  but  we 
lack  imagination;  we  see  facts  clearly,  but  we  have 
no  visions;  we  are  impassioned  with  things,  but  we 
are  not  in  love. 

"Now  the  peculiar  power  to  see  visions  is  given 
us  when  we  experience  either  great  joy  or  profound 
sorrow.  At  such  times,  we  are,  to  use  the  language 
of  the  Bible,  either  drinking  of  or  thirsting  for  the 
waters  of  life.  A  people  in  comfort  and  compla- 
cently satisfied  with  worldly  goods  can  but  rarely 
know  these  experiences.  They  are  not  disturbed 
either  to  exaltation  or  contrition.  Life  is  worth 
living  for  them  so  long  as  the  bodily  appetites  are 
fed  and  taxes  are  not  too  burdensome.  If  a  spirit- 
ual hunger  is  felt  at  all,  it  is  of  a  nature  to  be  easily 
appeased  by  such  arts  as  will  serve  to  dissipate 
ennui.  When  there  is  neither  exaltation  nor  con- 
trition there  can  be  no  poetry;  when  there  is  no 
spiritual  disturbance,  there  is  no  drama;  and  when 
people  are  desirous  only  of  being  amused,  the  nar- 
rative is  sensual  and  sensational. 

"But  a  change  is..becoming  evident — a  change  due, 
partly,  to  our  participation  in  the  war,  and  partly 
to  a  sense  of  revolt  against  a  growing  industrial 
feudalism.  We  are  thus  becoming  conscious  that 
we  possess  large  spiritual  assets,  and  we  are  begin- 
ning to  express  that  consciousness  in  a  poetry  of  ap- 


206  The  Silver  Age 

peal  and  a  prose  literature  of  hope.  On  both  sides 
I  see  signs  of  a  fresh  affirmation  of  new  revelations. 
The  America  that  could  respond  so  nobly  to  the 
demands  made  on  it  by  the  war,  is  an  America  that 
has  a  soul  to  save.  Soon  we  shall  realize  the  neces- 
sity for  saving  it,  and  when  we  do  we  shall  trans- 
mute our  spiritual  worth  into  the  gold  of  refresh- 
ing speech  and  the  music  of  recreating  poetry.  It 
has  already  been  exemplified  in  the  prose  of  Presi- 
dent Wilson's  addresses  and  the  poems  of  Mr. 
Vachel  Lindsay. 

"We  can  get  no  more  out  of  literature  than  we 
put  into  it,  and  if  we  are  to  produce  distinguished 
work,  we  must  steep  it  in  those  qualities  of  the  mind 
and  heart  which  we  recognize  to  be  our  most 
precious  possessions.  This  is  the  function  of  the 
creative  imagination,  the  mysterious  operations  of 
which  are,  indeed,  to  use  Shakespeare's  revealing 
phrase,  'a  precious  seeing,'  and  the  products  of 
which,  as  art,  immortalize  the  best  that  we  are  and 
hope  to  be. 

"The  best  in  any  of  us  is  precipitated,  in  any  ac- 
tivity of  life,  when  we  are  consciously  alive  to  the 
basic  fact  of  existence,  that  there  is  no  arbitrary 
dividing  line  between  man  and  man  or  between  man 
and  nature;  that  we  are  really  living  in  a  universe.  ^ 

"Wordsworth  expressed  it  with  beautiful  clarity 
in  his  'Primrose  of  the  Rock' : 

'The  flowers  still  faithful  to  the  stems 

Their  fellowship  renew; 
The  stems  are  faithful  to  the  root, 

That  worketh  out  of  view ; 
And  to  the  rock   the  root  adheres 

In  every  fibre  true. 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Golden  Disk       207 

'Close  clings  to  earth  the  living  rock, 

Though  threatening  still  to  fall ; 
The  earth  is  constant  to  her  sphere; 

And  God  upholds  them  all ; 
So  blooms  this  lonely  plant,  nor  dreads 

Her  annual  funeral.' 

"This  uniting  or  religious  power  we  unconsci- 
ously are  expressing  in  our  national  life  as  democ- 
racy, in  our  social  life  as  courtesy,  and  in  our 
personal  life  as  amity;  and  literature  is  the  creative 
imagination's  revelations  of  its  infinite  manifesta- 
tions, to  the  end  that  we  may  be  enhanced  through 
the  joy  of  our  faith  in  it  as  love. 

"Literature  has  abiding  value  for  us  only  in  the 
sense  that  its  art  helps  us  to  an  accomplishment  in 
the  greatest  of  all  arts — the  art  of  living — and 
through  the  joy  it  gives  us  to  bring  us  into  that 
sympathetic  relation  with  each  other  and  the  world 
which  makes  for  our  happiness. 

"The  writer  who  would  achieve  distinction  in 
literature  must  take  his  stand  on  this  holy  ground; 
but  it  is  we  who  must  prepare  a  place  for  him  there, 
for  unless  we  need  him  he  cannot  come." 

Church  spoke  the  last  words  with  a  slow  emphasis 
and  a  meaningful  smile.  In  the  pause  which  fol- 
lowed he  lit  a  fresh  cigarette  and,  turning  to  Finch, 
said,  "That's  all." 

"That's  the  best  sermon  I  ever  heard,"  exclaimed 
Finch,  amidst  the  general  murmurs  of  approval; 
"you  missed  your  vocation,  Church,  you  ought  to 
have  been  in  the  ministry." 

"The  pay  was  not  sufficiently  attractive,"  laughed 
Church. 


208  The  Silver  Age 

"Well,  I'm  not  sorry.  We're  ready  now  for  the 
discussion,  and  one  at  a  time,  please.  You  have  the 
floor,  Foote," 

"I  should  like  Church  to  explain,"  said  Foote,  his 
eye-glasses  glinting  through  the  half-lights,  "what 
he  means  by  Copernicus  and  Newton  being  truth 
revealers  through  love.  I  don't  see  where  they  come 
in  as  lovers.  Indeed  I  don't  follow  Church  on  this 
point  at  all.  A  scientist  must  be  cool  and  collected 
or  he'd  go  astray  altogether." 

Church  looked  up  smilingly  and  said  in  a  quiet 
voice,  "Perhaps  you  think  Archimedes  was  cool  when 
he  ran  naked  through  the  streets  of  Syracuse,  shout- 
ing 'Eureka,'  or  that  Galileo  was  collected  when  he 
first  saw  the  moons  of  Jupiter  through  his  telescope? 
Is  anybody  cool  and  collected  when  he  is  passion- 
ately absorbed?  I  doubt  it.  Those  men  of  science 
who  keep  their  heads  'cool'  may  be  excellent  analy- 
sers and  verifiers,  but  they  are  not  discoverers.  At 
best  they  are  fairly  accurate  calculating  and  tab- 
ulating machines.  I  think  you  are  laying  undue 
stress  on  the  intellect,  which  is  not  a  creating  power. 
Creation  is  the  function  of  the  imagination,  which 
operates  when  we  are  in  that  intimate  relation  with 
things  and  ideas  which  permits  of  no  doubt.  It  is 
the  work  of  that  faith  spoken  of  as  removing  moun- 
tains. That  intimacy  is  possible  only  through  a  com- 
plete giving  of  the  self  to  the  object,  and  that  is  the 
act  of  the  lover.  Whether  it  be  realized  through  en- 
thusiasm or  passion,  it  is  a  unfying  act,  which  is 
love  in  essence.  I  believe  the  great  men  of  science, 
like  Copernicus  and  Newton,  through  their  passion- 
ate enthusiasm,  experienced  this  intimacy  of  relation 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Golden  Disk       209 

I  call  love,  and  were  thus  vouchsafed  the  revela- 
tions of  the  truths  they  gave  to  the  world.  That's 
the  best  explanation  I  can  give,  Foote.  As  I  see  it 
there  is  a  force  which  binds  all  things  together  to 
produce  this  that  we  know  as  the  universe.  The 
poem  of  Wordsworth  I  read  to  you  beautifully  em- 
bodies what  I  feel.  I  like  to  think  of  this  unifying 
force  as  love,  because  this  human  word  explains  the 
mystery  of  the  world  in  a  human  way.  If  we  are 
looking  for  a  power  as  real  as  gravitation,  which  is 
truly  religious,  and  I  use  the  adjective  in  its  etymo- 
logical as  well  as  its  later  sense,  you  will  find  it  in 
love.  Its  spiritual  laws  of  action  were  discovered 
by  Jesus  eighteen  centuries  before  Newton  formu- 
lated its  mechanical  laws  of  motion.  Its  Trincipia' 
is  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount. 

"I  am  glad,  Church,  I  asked  for  the  explanation," 
said  Foote. 

"I  think  we  all  agree  with  Foote,"  exclaimed 
Aiterre;  "we've  heard  a  new  interpretation  of  the 
teaching  of  Christianity,  an  interpretation,  which, 
to  my  mind,  proves  it  to  be  on  the  lines  of  evolu- 
tion." 

"I  want  to  express  my  appreciation,"  remarked 
Marsh,  "of  Church's  art  of  stating  his  case,  and  I 
propose  that  his  address  to  us  be  printed  and  dis- 
tributed among  all  our  members." 

Loud  cries  of  approbation  greeted  the  suggestion. 
Finch  was  about  to  speak  when  Weaver  rose  ex- 
citedly, and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  say  a  few 
words. 

"I  want  to  ask  a  question  of  Church,"  he  said, 
"which  is  important  to  me.  I  know  little  or  noth- 


2IO  The  Silver  Age 

ing  of  literature  as  an  art;  the  only  art  about  which 
I  can  speak  is  painting,  and  I  try  to  tell  the  truth 
as  I  know  it  in  such  forms  of  beauty  as  I  see  it. 
How  is  it  that  so  few  people  are  interested  in  the 
truth,  or  the  beauty  either?  If  the  message  the 
artist  is  bringing  is  not  listened  to,  where  does  he 
come  in?  I  endorse  all  that  Church  has  said,  but 
it  leaves  me  stranded  on  the  shoals  of  circumstance. 
Is  there  any  solid  ground  on  which  workers  like  my- 
self can  build  their  hopes?" 

"That's  a  practical  question,  Weaver,"  remarked 
Finch,  "which  scarcely  concerns  us.  We  meet  here 
to  help  each  other  by  sympathy,  appreciation  and 
encouragement.  That's  the  best  we  can  do  for  the 
present.  It  may  be  that  our  discussions,  by  enlight- 
ening us,  will  enable  us  to  enlighten  others.  That's 
our  purpose.  In  the  meantime,  each  of  us  must 
work  and  be  true  to  the  best  he  knows.  Perhaps 
Church  can  answer  you  more  satisfactorily." 

"Your  personal  appeal,  Weaver,"  said  Church  in 
a  tender  voice,  "touches  me  deeply.  I  will  respond 
to  it  as  best  I  know  how,  in  the  spirit  in  which  you 
make  it.  Finch  is  right  in  what  he  has  just  said. 
We  are  trying  here  to  formulate  a  creed  that  will 
keep  us  along  the  road  we  must  travel  in  order  to 
fulfil  ourselves.  All  roads  are  beset  with  difficulties, 
but  we  can  help  each  other  over  :hem,  if  we  are 
really  in  earnest  to  realize  our  ideas.  There  are 
thousands  like  us  all  the  world  over,  who  are  seek- 
ing for  happy  issues  out  of  the  afflictions  which  beset 
them.  But  the  age  in  which  we  are  living  is  about 
to  bring  great  changes  in  the  line  of  our  endeavors. 
For  two  hundred  years  we  have  been  guided  by  the 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Golden  Disk       211 

truths  of  science,  which  we  have  applied  wonderfully 
for  utilitarian  purposes.  Unfortunately,  the  ends 
we  sought  were  personal  advantages.  We  are  now 
beginning  to  see  that  we  made  a  terrible  mistake. 
We  are  finding  out  that  the  truth,  whether  it  is  re- 
vealed by  the  scientist  or  the  artist,  must  set  us  all  free, 
if  it  is  to  abide  as  the  truth.  It  cannot  be  exploited 
for  private  or  selfish  ends  without  robbing  it  of  its 
emancipating  virtues,  and  without  sowing  the  seeds 
of  discontent  and  rebellion.  Your  appeal  for  a 
ground  on  which  to  build  your  hope  is  really  one  of  the 
many  rebel  voices  that  are  everywhere  being  heard 
to-day.  This  war,  through  which  we  have  passed, 
has  demonstrated  the  utter  futility  of  selfish  ends, 
and  has  shown  the  absurdity  of  an  economic  science 
which  leaves  the  hindmost  to  the  devil.  In  a  world 
of  spirit-endowed  beings  there  can  no  more  be  a 
permanent  stability  for  a  system  which  takes  more 
than  it  gives,  than  there  can  be  happiness  in  a  home 
where  love  is  not.  Hitherto,  we  have  measured  our 
well-being  in  terms  of  money;  but  the  changes  of 
which  I  speak  will  set  a  new  standard  of  measure- 
ment, a  standard  which  will  indicate  true  values — 
the  progress  made.  Then  will  the  scientist  and  the 
artist  come  into  their  own.  The  business  man  has 
sought  to  be  wealthy  for  himself.  The  artist  and 
the  scientist  aim  to  make  all  men  wealthy.  That 
basic  difference  explains  the  whole  mystery  of  our 
troubles.  And  we  must  realize  this  before  we  can 
begin  to  set  our  own  house  of  life  in  order.  That 
was  in  my  mind  when  I  said  that  the  man  of  dis- 
tinction in  literature  cannot  come  unless  we  prepare 
a  place  for  him,  unless  we  need  him.  We  do  need 


212  The  Silver  Age 

him,  and  not  alone  him,  but  the  men  of  distinction 
in  every  science  and  in  every  art,  and  we  shall  soon 
begin  to  prepare  places  for  them  by  accepting  and 
working  out  Burke's  ideal  of  a  government  'of  a 
people  as  a  partnership  in  the  arts  and  sciences,  in 
every  virtue  and  in  all  perfection.'  So  much  for 
the  larger  question  involved  in  your  appeal,  Weaver. 
As  to  you,  yourself,  I  can  only  add  this,  that  the 
human  soul  is  so  constituted  that  it  must  ever  seek 
and  never  find.  It  is  in  the  seeking  that  true  happi- 
ness lies.  There  are  no  real  goals;  there  are  only 
stopping-places  on  the  way  for  refreshment.  This 
uncertainty  is  the  romance  of  life,  and  the  brave 
man  loves  the  adventure.  Let  me  repeat  what 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  said:  4O,  toiling  hands  of 
mortals!  O,  unwearied  feet,  travelling  ye  know 
not  whither!  Soon,  soon  it  seems  to  you,  you  must 
come  forth  on  some  conspicuous  hill-top,  and  but  a 
little  further,  against  the  setting  sun,  descry  the 
spires  of  El  Dorado.  Little  do  ye  know  your  own 
blessedness,  for  to  travel  hopefully  is  a  better  thing 
than  to  arrive,  and  the  true  success  is  to  labor.*  I 
am  not  quoting  these  words,  Weaver,  to  cloud  the 
issue  before  your  mind;  but  they  were  written  by  a 
worker  who  was  also  an  artist,  and  who  achieved 
distinction  in  spite  of  many  obstacles  in  his  way.  If 
the  people  of  whom  you  complain  do  not  see  beauty, 
it  is  their  misfortune  and  not  their  fault.  But  more 
see  beauty  than  you  think.  No  really  great  artist 
has  ever  been  lost  to  the  world.  In  the  meantime, 
keep  on  preaching  the  Gospel  of  Beauty. 

"The  other  day  I  read  a  little  book  called  'A 
Handy    Guide    to    Beggars,'    written    by    a    poet, 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Golden  Disk       213 

Vachel  Lindsay.  He  is  the  man,  you  will  remem- 
ber, who  tramped  about  the  country  preaching  what 
he  called  The  Gospel  of  Beauty.  He  earned  his 
food  and  lodging  working  as  a  farm  laborer,  and 
when  he  could  find  no  work,  he  exchanged  his  book- 
let for  a  meal.  That  required  courage  to  do;  but 
poets  always  were  reckless  fellows.  Vachel  Lind- 
say, like  Columbus,  set  out  on  a  voyage  of  discov- 
ery. He  was  looking  to  find  Cathay.  He  found, 
instead,  a  universe.  The  verse  he  prefixes  to  his 
'Guide'  embodies  the  aspiration  of  the  poet  as  ad- 
venturer : 

'Would  that  we  had  the  fortunes  of  Columbus, 
Sailing  his  caravels  a  trackless  way, 
He  found  a  Universe — he  sought  Cathay. 
God  give  such  dawns  as  when,  his  venture  o'er, 
The  Sailor  looked  upon  San  Salvador. 
God  lead  us  past  the  setting  of  the  Sun 
To  wizard  islands  of  august  surprise; 
God  make  our  blunders  wise.' 

"You  will  find  as  you  read  this  book,  that  there 
are  many  people  to  be  met  with  on  the  road  of  your 
adventure,  who  will  understand  your  profoundest 
thought,  if  you  have  the  art  to  talk  to  them  in  their 
own  language.  If  you  want  them  to  see  beauty 
and  love  it,  that  is  what  you  must  do.  And  you 
will  find  also  that  the  art  will  come  to  you  if  you 
are  not  too  proud  of  yourself,  if  you  will  be 
brotherly  with  those  you  meet.  If  you  have  been 
highly  gifted,  you  must  be  kindly  moved,  for  you 
have  been  called  to  serve.  Like  you,  Weaver,  the 
poet  is  one  of  those  children  of  Don  Quixote  who, 
as  Lindsay  puts  it,  sees  giants,  where  most  folks  see 
windmills.'  That  is  why  they  are  beggars.  I  rec- 


214  The  Silver  Age 

ommend  you  to  take  this  'Handy  Guide'  with  you 
along  the  hard  road  you  are  now  traveling.  It  will 
help  you  to  friendly  intercourse  with  all  you  meet 
on  the  way — with  the  rich  man  at  his  gate  as  well 
as  the  laborer  by  the  wayside.  We  are  all  beggars 
in  this  world;  some  of  us  beg  for  bread,  others  for 
station,  but  we  all  beg  for  love.  The  artist  is 
blessed  in  that  he  can  express  it  in  himself  and  his 
work  also." 

"What  is  the  Gospel  of  Beauty?"  asked  Miss 
Rankin. 

"It  is  the  Gospel  of  the  Happy,"  answered 
Church;  "but  Weaver  knows  and  he  will  tell  it  to 
you  better  than  I  can,"  and  he  laughed  pleasantly. 

"What  has  beauty  got  to  do  with  happiness?" 
asked  Hardy. 

"Everything.  As  an  art  critic  you  should  know. 
But,  perhaps  you  are  thinking  of  art  as  a  technique. 
If  you  are,  then,  of  course  you  are  not  seeing  beauty. 
Wait  until  you1  re  in  love  and  you'll  know  the  happi- 
ness as  well  as  the  beauty.  Then  you'll  no  longer 
be  the  critic,  but  the  creator;  for  you'll  be  seeing 
visions  yourself.  That's  what  beauty  is  for — to 
make  us  see  visions  and  to  find  our  happiness  in 
realizing  them  in  our  work.  Ah,  my  dear  Hardy, 
nature  is  a  cunning  witch.  She  endows  us  with  the 
power  to  love,  and  then  shows  us  beauty  by  which  she 
charms  that  power  to  work  for  her.  And  the  mystery 
of  it  is  that  we  find  our  happiness  only  in  doing  this 
unconscious  service,  for  in  serving  her  we  are  fulfilling 
ourselves.  So,  you  see,  Miss  Rankin,  beauty  is  n 
very  precious  gift." 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Golden  Disk       215 

Church  rose  and  the  meeting  broke  up.  In  the 
general  confusion  of  parting,  Weaver  slipped  out 
quietly.  He  felt  he  must  be  alone  to  commune  with 
himself  over  the  new  ideas  which  the  evening's 
gathering  had  stirred  him.  He  stood  on  the  side- 
walk gratefully  drinking  in  the  cool  air  and  the 
stillness  of  the  Avenue's  night.  He  was  vaguely 
conscious  that  he  had  arrived  at  a  critical  stage  in 
his  life.  The  time  had  gone  by  for  thinking;  for 
beating  his  wings  in  a  vacuum,  as  it  were.  He 
must  be  up  and  doing  with  a  heart  for  any  fate. 

"When  are  you  going  to  explain  to  me  the  Gos- 
pel of  Beauty?" 

He  started  at  the  sound  of  the  voice  and  turned 
to  Miss  Rankin  who  was  smiling  mischievously  at  him. 
Her  face,  in  the  silver  light  of  the  electrolier,  seemed 
to  him  just  at  that  moment  like  that  of  an  angel. 
For  a  moment  he  was  at  a  loss,  but  he  recovered 
himself  and  said  slowly:  "When  I  can  speak  its 
language." 

"And  when  will  that  be?" 

"When  the  Society  of  Independent  Artists  hold 
their  third  exhibition." 

"So  you  have  fixed  the  very  day.  Two  years 
from  now." 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I'll  wait  until  then." 

"Is  that  a  promise?"     He  asked  with  eager  eyes. 

She  turned  away  and  began  to  walk  slowly  down 
the  Avenue.  Weaver  followed  by  her  side. 

"Is  that  a  promise?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  quietly,  "but  is  the  gospel 
so  hard  to  express?" 


216  The  Silver  Age 

"It  is  for  me.  I  have  learned  to-night  what  I  did 
not  know  before.  I  see  now  that  failure  is  too 
often  the  result  of  trying  to  see  too  much.  I  must 
have  faith,  and  I  must  learn  how  to  translate  the 
Gospel  into  the  language  that  all  speak.  That  is 
my  task;  and  if  I  but  work  in  faith  I  believe  that 
even  my  blunders  will  be  made  wise." 

"I  am  sure  they  will,  Mr.  Weaver,  and  I  am  also 
sure  you  will  succeed." 

"Thank  you,  your  words  of  encouragement  will 
help  me." 

"Good-night,  then,  and  remember,  I  will  wait." 

"I  cannot  forget.     Good-night." 

Weaver  watched  the  graceful  figure  fade  into  the 
distance.  "I  wonder,"  he  said  to  himself,  "if  it  is 
true,  that  to  travel  hopefully  is  a  better  thing  than 
to  arrive?" 


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' 


NOV  2  8  2004 


20?rt-l/22 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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